


The truth of perfect little secrets

by rydia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Getting Together, Inspired by The Witcher, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan, Sexual Themes, Sylvix Big Bang (Fire Emblem), alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rydia/pseuds/rydia
Summary: “Do you remember,” Sylvain goes on, “the promise we made to stay together until we die?”Felix meets Sylvain’s eyes again, but he can’t bear to hold them. His gaze wanders around the inn, half hoping for some interruption. “Of course I do,” he mutters. “It was childish.”Sylvain’s response is quiet. “You think so?”“Of course.” Felix is impatient now. “What happened a week later proves how childish it was.”Felix is a Witcher, wandering the Alliance for work while a war rages between the Kingdom and the Empire. The last person he expects to run into is an old childhood friend, working as a bard, just as far from home as he is.Written for the Sylvix Big Bang, with art by @pattywakos.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 119
Collections: Sylvix Big Bang





	The truth of perfect little secrets

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sylvix Big Bang, with art for this story done by the very talented [Yury](https://twitter.com/pattywakos) \- you can see the art [here](https://twitter.com/pattywakos/status/1295418923777699841)! Her art is so expressive and full of character – I love the piece she drew for this, and I highly recommend checking out her other works too. 
> 
> Also, thank you so much to [Maddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddy02/) and [Alex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxir/pseuds/alexxir) for their help beta-ing this! 
> 
> Finally, this is a FE3H/Witcher AU. Just a warning – I'm playing fast and loose with Witcher lore (and FE3H), because I do want I want. 💕

The war currently raging through Fódlan means little to Felix Fraldarius. Killing men is something he’s not in the habit of doing – not unless they’re trying to kill him first. If he were still affiliated with the Church of Seiros, then he’d have been dragged into the war, he knows. The Church is always involved, and it’s partially for that reason that the Empire has risen against them.

But Felix has left the Church behind and gone to Leicester, where they revere the Goddess less and look less kindly on Witchers than they do in Fargheus. Felix will take the trade-off.

So while there is a war ravaging other parts of the continent, Felix is clambering through the mountains overlooking Fódlan’s Throat, hunting down the enraged wyverns that have been terrorising those living along the border.

These mountain wyverns are cousins to the ones that the Almyrans breed and train and take such pride in. They’re wild and vicious, and everyone knows to keep well away from their nests.

Or, well, almost everyone. A group of young men on the Leicester side of the Throat had the bright idea to climb the mountains and steal a wyvern egg. Worth a fortune, if they succeeded.

To the surprise of no one, they did not succeed.

As far as Felix could gather, the idiots had damaged the egg and killed the baby inside it. The parents had been enraged, and begun a rampage in revenge. Wyverns are clever. They don’t forget. And they seem to know where the trespassers had come from – their wrath has entirely been focused on the Leicester side of the border, squarely in Goneril territory. People passing through the Throat say that there have been no recent wyvern attacks in Almyra.

The men who’d thought to steal the egg are all dead, of course. Felix had found little of their remains. Bloodied fabric, rotting flesh, bones. But their deaths clearly hadn’t satisfied the wyverns, who have continued their raiding with no signs of stopping.

A gruesome business, but one that pays well. The Gonerils are eager to rid their territory of the menace, especially now that it’s looking likely that Leicester will be pulled into the war eventually. Duke Riegan can’t keep them neutral forever. No one can afford to send their soldiers off to die at the claws of a wyvern. Instead, they are to be sent off to die at the hands of other men.

A Witcher could take care of the wyverns. If he dies, no one cares.

* * *

If Holst Goneril is surprised when Felix strolls into his entrance hall dragging the dismembered heads of two wyverns behind him, he doesn’t show it.

One pink eyebrow raises dangerously high at the blood and mud Felix is tracking into his home, but Holst says nothing as he removes a coin purse from his belt.

“I’m very glad, Witcher,” he says evenly, “that your reputation is not unwarranted.”

Felix grunts in reply, pocketing the bag of gold and already turning to leave. He knows what his reputation is, just as he knows Holst’s. That coin purse is good.

He drops the rope attached to the wyvern heads and leaves. When he’d arrived here, Goneril had fed him and invited him to sleep in their estate.

There’s no such offer this time, but Felix has more than enough money for an inn that’ll provide a bath. The Gonerils pay well.

* * *

The Thirsty Throat is a place Felix has frequented before.

This is the first time there’s ever been a bard.

He pauses just inside the threshold, scanning the dim interior. A few heads raise at his entrance, but most look away almost immediately. Felix can see the ones that note his silver sword, taking a mental inventory of them just in case they’re the type of men who decide to start trouble with a Witcher.

_The type of fools to start trouble with a Witcher._

No one is really paying much attention to the bard, who seems to be tucked into a corner just out of sight. The conversations going on are almost drowning the singer out, but the low, pleasant voice and melodic sounds of the lute catches Felix’s attention. He can’t quite make out the words being sung, but the melody sounds vaguely familiar.

As he approaches the bar, the woman behind it gives him a disgruntled look.

Felix returns it with one of his own. “I need a room, a bath, and a meal. I have coin,” he says brusquely.

Somewhere behind him, the music stops.

“Are you aware,” the woman says archly, “of how bad you smell?”

He tries to curb his temper. “That’s why I asked for a bath.”

“You’ve walked blood onto my floor.”

Felix looks down. There’s some straw strewn about it, dust and, yes, definitely blood. But that could belong to anyone. “It looked like that before I got here.”

“Excuse me? Are you saying my inn is dirty?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Maybe you should wash your floor. Can I have a room or not?”

Her eyes narrow and just as she opens her mouth to reply, an ingratiating voice sounds behind Felix. The deep, warm tone of it wraps around Felix, making him shiver.

“Now, now, Elisa, you’re too beautiful to frown like that.”

To Felix’s surprise, her face lightens as her eyes focus on whoever has just spoken. He feels a warmth near his back, and he tenses out of habit at someone being so close to him. His hand slides closer to his sword. “I told you, bard,” the innkeepers continues, “I’m too old for your honeyed words.” But she smiles a little, in an exasperated kind of way.

The man laughs, and it slides down Felix’s spine like a caress. He has to resist the urge to turn and look at this man – this bard – with the beautiful voice. He keeps his focus on the woman. “A room?” he repeats impatiently.

She immediately sours again. Primly, she says, “You can take your business elsewhere, with that attitude.”

Felix’s temper flares. He’s filthy, he’s hungry, and he’s tired. There are wyvern guts on his sword. He doesn’t want to have to find another inn.

“Listen–“

“Elisa.” The delicious voice cuts him off, and suddenly there’s an arm slung across his shoulder.

Felix stiffens. The owner of the nice voice smells just as good as he sounds. But he’s furious about that, along with the invasion of his personal space.

His fingers twitch even closer towards his sword. 

The voice continues. “Won’t you let my friend here stay? You’d be doing me a huge favour? I’ll make sure he behaves.”

Snarling now, Felix turns towards the man, shrugging out of his hold. His hand grips the pommel of his sword, ready to draw it at a second’s notice. “You asshole, I’m not your friend.”

He’s about to say more, but he stops short on taking in the man in front of him, who holds a hand to his heart and has a stupid handsome grin on his stupid, handsome face. A face that’s familiar in a strange kind of way, because the last time he’d seen this face they were both children. But now this man is tall, with wide shoulders and a chiselled jaw.

The shock of red hair, the grin, and the twinkling brown eyes are all the same, though.

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius, I’m hurt. If you can’t call me a friend, who can you?”

Sylvain Jose Gautier. Someone Felix had never expected to see again in his life.

“How long has it been?” he asks Felix.

Felix knows the answer to the question straight away. He’s sure Sylvain does too.

It has been a little over fifteen years. The anniversary of the murders of his brother and parents had passed a few months ago.

It had been a week before that night since he’d last seen Sylvain. It had been on that visit to the Fraldarius estate that they’d made that stupid promise, after Felix had gotten upset when Sylvain had told him he was leaving.

He had cried, and then they had promised. To die together.

Felix had never let himself think of it, because it was silly, especially in light of what had happened just a week later, when the comfortable world Felix had known had been destroyed forever. He knows now that Sylvain had just humoured him with that promise to get him to stop crying.

Felix remembered waving as Sylvain’s carriage disappeared into the trees on the edges of the Fraldarius estate, closely followed by Ingrid’s as she too went home to Galatea.

Dimitri had stayed. His father, King Lambert, was accompanying Sylvain and Margrave Gautier back up north to their own territory, where tensions with Sreng were escalating. He hadn’t wanted Dimitri to be in danger, so he’d left him in Fraldarius, with Felix for company. It was supposed to have been the safest place for the prince.

It would have been laughable at the time for anyone to think Dimitri might have been in danger in Fraldarius, in the keep of Felix’s father, so devoted to Lambert.

And Glenn was there. Glenn was older than even Sylvain, and already nearly a knight.

Of _course_ Fraldarius was the best place for Dimitri to be. And Dimitri’s presence had taken the sting off Sylvain and Ingrid leaving.

And then a week later it had all gone to ashes. Quite literally.

_How long has it been?_

Felix doesn’t answer, still staring at Sylvain, trying to make sense of the fact that he is here. Here, in Leicester. Working as a bard while the Empire invades Faerghus.

The innkeeper says something as Felix is taking stock, and he takes in Sylvain’s profile as he turns to her with a smile.

She’s allowing Felix to stay. It might have been fifteen years since he’d seen Sylvain, but it’s clear he’s still good at getting what he wants.

The Innkeeper calls him Red.

“A drink,” he says with a smile,” for my friend and I.”

The innkeeper scoffs but she produces two mugs and begins pouring mead into them. “Only you’d be friends with a Witcher.”

Sylvain’s smile goes tight. “I’m friends to all, Elisa.”

Throughout the exchange, Felix keeps staring at Sylvain, like his face contains the answers to the mysteries of the world. But when Sylvain’s attention drifts back to him, Felix looks away as soon as their eyes meet. From the corner of his eye, he sees Sylvain shift towards him, attempting to take his arm, and he jerks back.

Sylvain lets his hand drop, but doesn’t comment on Felix’s flinch. Instead, all he says is, “C’mon, let’s find a quiet corner.”

The woman clears her throat pointedly. “Payment, Witcher.”

As Sylvain makes his way over to a small table a little away from anyone else, Felix pulls out some coins and shoves them across to the innkeeper, who quickly sweeps them into her hands. Then, for a moment, Felix hesitates, very aware of many eyes on him.

He half considers just leaving and going to his room, but then he meets Sylvain’s eyes and without any further thought, his legs begin carrying him over.

As he sits down opposite Sylvain, Felix keeps avoiding looking directly at him. The flavour of the mead – too sweet for his tastes – provides a distraction as he attempts to shove away a lot of unwanted, complicated feelings.

“Felix.” 

Sylvain’s voice is jarringly pleasant. Felix can’t help but wish he’d paid more attention to his singing when he’d first arrived at the inn. “I never thought I’d see you again,” Sylvain goes on, sounding almost reverential. He leans forward, and Felix leans back, still refusing to look him in the face and feeling a little overwhelmed to suddenly be facing a childhood friend he’s thought about too often over the years. 

Sylvain doesn’t seem to notice, and keeps talking in that hushed tone of voice. “They wouldn’t let me visit or write to you, you know.”

Felix frowns, and finally darts his eyes to Sylvain’s face. His skin is pale and perfect looking against the wilderness of his hair. The flickering oil lamps cast interesting shadows across his face. There’s a faint scar bisecting through one eyebrow. A dusting of freckles across his nose is visible even in the low light. His eyes are intent as they focus on Felix.

Felix’s heart thuds faster.

“At Garreg Mach?” he finally asks, and Sylvain lights up at the response.

“Right, at Garreg Mach. My parents told me you’d been taken to be a Witcher, so we couldn’t be friends anymore.”

Felix swallows, remembering all too well the lectures he’d had about leaving his old life behind. “It’s said that if you can’t leave your old life behind, the Witcher trials will kill you,” he murmurs in a low voice. _It’s said_ … they say a lot of things, at Garreg Mach.

Sylvain’s face shifts. “Most die, don’t they?”

Felix nods, but doesn’t elaborate.

After a brief moment, Sylvain says, “They wouldn’t even let Dimitri see you. He kept asking.”

Felix tenses at that. “I _did_ see him,” he spits out. “After I became a Witcher. I know what people call Witchers, but out of the two of us, he’s the one who’s the monster.” That had been back when Felix was still with the Church, sent on a job to Faerghus to help the newly crowned King Dimitri with a vampire problem. At the time, the thought of seeing Dimitri – who Felix hadn’t seen since the night his family was killed – had left him restless with anticipation.

But Dimitri had changed. He’d not only gleefully helped Felix with the vampires, beheading them easily, but had viciously killed the humans working with them – who had been planning an uprising against him.

Felix had known they’d had to die for their treason. But he did not relish or glorify the bloodshed. He didn’t _enjoy_ it. 

But Dimitri did, and it made Felix sick.

He’d left Faerghus angry and disappointed. The boy who had been his friend – his whole world – nothing more than a beast. A _boar_.

Sylvain draws back slightly, a brief look of anguish crossing his face before it smooths over. “You heard what happened, at Duscur? His Highness… he’s… been through a lot.”

Felix stares at him balefully. The fact that Sylvain isn’t asking him questions means he knows exactly what Felix is talking about. “So why aren’t you with him?”

“Ah.” Sylvain leans back and takes a long pull of his drink. “I was getting into some hot water with a noblewoman who’d been trying to pin her bastard son on me. Figured it was time to get away for a while.”

Felix listens in disbelief. “You’re here to avoid marrying some girl?”

“Several girls, really,” he counters with a salacious grin.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Perfectly serious,” he replies with a smile that looks fake to Felix.

“But the war– you shouldn’t be here.”

Sylvain’s smile turns bitter. “Perhaps.”

“You should be in Faerghus, with–“

“Dimitri?” The smile twists into something ugly. “Perhaps,” he says again. “But you should be with the Church. You should be fighting with Dimitri, too.”

Felix clenches his jaw. This might be Sylvain but it’s clear he doesn’t know his old childhood friend anymore. He doesn’t feel like he can trust this man with his reasons for leaving the Church.

That Rhea is working with Dimitri – both of them, unchecked, is a troubling thought. But they’re Emperor Edelgard’s problem. Perhaps they’ll all do Fódlan a favour and kill each other, although that would leave Claude von Riegan in a dangerously powerful position. In fact, that’s probably what Claude is hoping for.

At least he has the Professor to temper him.

“No answer for that, huh?” Sylvain takes another long drink. His face brightens as he looks at Felix. “I have missed you, Felix. Let’s not argue.”

“We’re not arguing.”

“Remember when we kids?” Sylvain laughs, more genuine than before. “You were such a crybaby. Hard to imagine you’d grow up to be a Witcher. Is it true you have no emotions?” At Felix’s glare, Sylvain shakes his head. “Okay, not true. Figured that one was bullshit. I wonder what Glenn would think of it?”

The unexpected mention of his brother – of hearing Glenn’s name spoken out loud for the first time in years – makes Felix flinch. Ice threads through his veins as grief slices through him just as strong as it had the day Glenn died.

Sylvain had known Glenn, of course. Once, while scraped and bruised and with his hand in a brace from broken fingers, he’d once confided to Felix that he wished Glenn was his brother too, because Miklan…

Sylvain hadn’t finished that sentence. He hadn’t had to – the broken fingers said enough. Even Felix, young and naive as he’d been back then, had understood.

“Ah.” Sylvain shifts in his seat, leaning forward again, with a regretful look on his face. “I’m sorry, Felix. I shouldn’t have brought him up like that.”

And even that, even hearing his own name is strange to hear. Mostly Felix just gets called Witcher, these days, or occasionally Fraldarius. But _that_ comes with its own baggage, usually said by someone who knew what that name had meant as they eyed up the last remaining member of what was once one of the most important houses of Faerghus, second only to the royal family.

“Are you alright?” 

Sylvain voice is so gentle, and despite it now being deep with nothing childish about it, it reminds Felix once again of how it had been before, when he’d gone to Sylvain for comfort with tears in his eyes because he’d argued with Ingrid or Dimitri and Sylvain would hug him tell him everything would be okay.

He nods, sharply, and Sylvain seems to relax slightly, though he still watches Felix carefully, like he’s trying to memorise him.

“Can I ask you something?” Sylvain says, careful, and Felix gives another jerky nod, already knowing he’s not going to like the question. “Do you remember,” Sylvain goes on, “the promise we made to stay together until we die?”

Felix meets Sylvain’s eyes again, but he can’t bear to hold them. His gaze wanders around the inn, half hoping for some interruption. “Of course I do,” he mutters. “It was childish.”

Sylvain’s response is quiet. “You think so?”

“Of course.” Felix is impatient now. “What happened a week later proves how childish it was.”

“I don’t know about that. It made it seem all the more important to me. I really have missed you, Felix.”

That makes Felix frown and look at him again. Sylvain’s voice is low and pleasant to listen to, though he can’t quite understand the shiver of emotion in it.

Briefly, Felix wonders again what Sylvain sounds like when he sings, before he shoves that thought away, along with thoughts of their promise and all the memories.

 _Weakness_.

Felix isn’t weak. He’d never have survived the Witcher trials if he were. But in this moment, he feels weak. His past, Sylvain, it’s all a weakness. This conversation – this reminiscing – is pointless.

He needs to get out of here. Get out of Goneril and decide what he’s doing next.

“Felix?” Sylvain asks again.

Derdriu, he thinks. Can’t go to Faerghus, can’t go to Adrestia. He has to stay in Leicester. So Derdriu will be good. Plenty of rich people there who’ll overpay a Witcher to take care of zeugls in their sewers. Not a nice job, but easy money. Maybe he can go east to Almyra. Get out of here altogether and eliminate the risk of running into anyone he knows ever again.

Sylvain is talking again, but Felix ignores him and stands.

“Goodbye, Sylvain.” There’s a finality to Felix’s words, short as they are, that seems to stun Sylvain, who falls silent, mouth hanging open.

“Fe–“

He doesn’t even give Sylvain the time to finish saying his name before he’s turning and leaving, intent on finding his room and bath he’d paid for and not thinking at all about the person who helped him procure them.

* * *

When Felix wakes from his nightmares, he swears he can still smell the burning wood and bodies from that night. He’s sweating like he’s back there, burning up from the fire that pressed too close, that he just _barely_ managed to escape from. His hands twist in fear just like they had back then, except instead of finding Dimitri’s arm, they close only around a blanket, and Felix will never admit to himself that he wishes for the comfort of someone in these moments, because that would be a weakness.

Sylvain is a part of his childhood, from the time before he lost his family, and before he’d been taken to Garreg Mach. Felix knows these memories are his greatest weakness, and he hates it. He hates that anger and grief still tears through his heart even now, that he still wakes up gasping for breath and calling for Glenn, thinking he’s back in that burning house, him and Dimitri being dragged to safety by a servant out of the crumbling house and into the cold, frigid night.

Sylvain had not been there on that terrible night, and Felix is glad for that, because if he had, Sylvain would be dead, too.

So Felix can be relieved that Sylvain is alive, even if for some inexplicable reason he’s singing in an inn far away from where he should be. That has nothing to do with Felix. He cares nothing for a silly promise they made when they were both children, before Felix’s life had fallen apart. He isn’t beholden to it, just like he isn’t beholden to Dimitri because he’s a Fraldarius.

He isn’t even really a Fraldarius anymore. That house is dead. All that remains is a Witcher.

He doesn’t care, Felix tells himself, more than once. It doesn’t matter.

* * *

The main roads of Leicester are well maintained and safe. It’s a matter of pride among the Alliance nobles, who want to keep the merchants happy and the gold flowing.

So Felix is expecting the journey north to Derdriu to be a quiet one, although he takes some detours off the main path to see if there’s any work in the smaller villages along the way – places that won’t mind hiring a Witcher unaffiliated with the Church. The kind of people Felix likes, who hold practicality in more importance than doctrine.

He finds he’s itching for some work; anything that might take his mind off the past and people who should stay in it.

But all seems to be quiet.

“You know how it is, Witcher,” one man rumbles to him, in a small village that he’s helped before. Those who remember him here are, at least, friendly. “The monsters are all flocking to the war, and those that aren’t are hiding. Not likely to be bothering anyone.”

Felix only grunts at that, not really agreeing. “The war will reach here, eventually.”

“Aye, true enough,” the man replies. “The Duke is canny but they say Gloucester is working against him.”

Gloucester isn’t a noble Felix has ever worked for – he’s definitely the type to only hire a Witcher from the Church, and before he’d left, Felix had always been sent to Faerghus.

“It’ll be bad,” Felix says, with sudden certainty.

And then it hits him – that perhaps Sylvain is here, in Leicester, because Faerghus and the Church are losing. That it’s only a matter of time before the Emperor turns her eyes to Leicester and Claude will be helpless to stop her from marching into his country. Especially if Gloucester is working with her.

Almyra, Felix thinks again. He should have gone east from Goneril, not north.

Perhaps he can take a boat from Derdriu.

It’s not cowardly for him to leave. This isn’t his war. Even if he was still with the Church, he’s not sure he could follow Dimitri, not after what he’d seen.

He shudders.

The man nods. “It will be bad,” he says softly.

* * *

Now Felix sees what he might have missed before; observant as he is to monsters and threats, he’d missed the ripple of uncertainty growing stronger in the land. The tales of skirmishes at the border, of Gloucester soldiers marching through their territory, of villager leaders gathering arms and training anyone who can pick up a weapon.

A few ask him to stay, to defend their homes when the time comes. Felix declines, but becomes more troubled with each place he passes through.

It had been naive to think the war wouldn’t find him. And if he’s being asked to fight by villagers, he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone more powerful makes a request of him.

* * *

Felix stops in a middling sized town not long after reaching Riegan territory. He’s familiar enough with it to know a good place to stay. From here, it should only take him a couple more days to reach Derdriu, if the weather remains good.

He stables his horse just as the sun sets and enters the inn. There’s already a large crowd in there, which surprises him. Usually so many people means noise, but from the outside, the inn had been rather quiet.

The reason for the silence soon becomes clear, as the clear notes of a lute, expertly played, begin to ring out around the tavern.

Felix freezes, just inside the entrance, as he spots the person holding the lute. It’s Sylvain, standing in the middle of the large room, commanding the attention of everyone in there. It’s clear this isn’t his first song of the evening.

Sylvain turns slightly, catching sight of Felix, but his only reaction is a slight widening of his eyes and a grin edging across his face. He turns away, facing the bulk of the crowd again, and the melody his fingers are plucking changes, reminding Felix of songs he’s heard sung about heroes and adventurers.

It’s clear Sylvain is a master at the instrument, making the complicated melody he’s playing look easy.

And then he starts singing.

Felix is so distracted by his voice that he doesn’t take in the words at first. Sylvain’s voice is rich and strong, and carries throughout the tavern. But it also sounds deeply personal, and even though his face is angled away from him, Felix feels like Sylvain is singing directly to him. His voice has a seductive quality, rolling down Felix’s spine like a caress and making him shiver with pleasure.

And then Felix registers the words that Sylvain is singing.

_“In the mountains of Fódlan’s Throat,_

_Danger and beasts lie._

_If you are not prepared for the worst,_

_Then you will surely die.”_

Sylvain circles the room as he sings and plays, pausing when he’s facing Felix again. Mesmerised, Felix can’t draw his eyes away from Sylvain’s.

“ _To make the path of the Throat safe,_

_A hero has appeared._

_With swords of silver and steel,_

_He has slain the wyverns,_

_Defeated the monsters,_

_And for that we all cheer._ ”

Felix can feel himself going redder and redder as Sylvain sings, even though no one else here knows that the song is about him.

Sylvain winks at him, stepping closer, clearly enjoying Felix’s wide-eyed, blushing expression. 

“ _Witcher! Witcher!_

_We cry in delight,_

_And thank you for your help._

_Witcher! Witcher!_

_We cry in pleasure_

_At the sight of your handsome visage_.”

Felix starts. His… _what_?

Sylvain isn’t quite grinning – he’s too focused on singing for that – but there’s a decided twinkle in his eye, and the key of the song changes slightly.

“ _His eyes are as golden as the sands of Almyra,_

_His hair the darkest of nights,_

_His face as comely as a god’s,_

_His body a sin of delight_.”

Felix – who has survived the slaying of his family, the Witcher trials, and countless battles against various monsters and men, a man who lives by his instincts – can’t move. He is frozen; held in place by Sylvain’s words, sung in that voice that almost feels like a physical touch. He is pinned by Sylvain’s gaze, heat curling through his stomach in a way he’s never experienced before, and–

–and that’s _enough_.

He’d walked away from Sylvain back in Goneril for a reason. Sylvain has no right to go around singing about him.

Settling on anger, Felix shoves himself forward, knocking into Sylvain and causing his fingers to slip on the lute. Some parts of the crowd jeer good-naturedly, and Sylvain takes it in stride.

“I think I’ve embarrassed the Witcher,” he calls out lazily.

More eyes focus on Felix as he crosses the tavern to order a drink and food. He deepens his scowl for good measure, hoping it will keep everyone away from him.

“He’s not that handsome!” a woman calls out from a corner and then cackles.

“Now, now, let’s not say things we don’t mean.” Even though Felix has his back to Sylvain, he can hear the smile in his voice. “And this Witcher did slay the wyverns who were terrorising Goneril. I think we should all drink to that.” A ragged cheer goes up from the crowd – who have clearly enjoyed some drinks already – and Felix hunches over the bar, willing his ears to stop burning.

“You really the Witcher who killed the wild wyverns?”

Felix glances up at the man behind the bar who had spoken – a burly, large man with an affable expression.

He grunts and nods in reply, and the man’s face stretches out in a smile. “Wow, that’s incredible. We heard about that all the way up here. I’m glad you stopped them from hurting any more people. Drinks and a meal on the house, as a thanks.”

Felix just stares at the man, unused to this level of friendliness even from people whose lives he’s saved. “Uh. Thank you,” he finally replies in a quiet voice, unable to keep scowling in the face of this kindness.

“To think,” the man goes on, loud even over Sylvain’s continued singing – which has, thankfully, changed topics. “We’d never have known if that bard hadn’t told us.”

“Right.” Felix shifts, uncomfortable, and glances back at Sylvain, a jolt running through him when he realises Sylvain is still watching him. Hurriedly, he turns back to the barman. “I’ll take you up on that offer of a meal.”

The man beams. “No problem.” He then launches into their menu, enthusiastically telling Felix about each dish, and Felix hardly listens, picking something at random, because already his attention is back on the man singing behind him. He doesn’t turn and look at Sylvain again, but he doesn’t need to look at him to hear him.

The song Sylvain is singing now is more upbeat – some ditty about courting a woman that sounds vaguely familiar to Felix. The kind of knee slapping song that goes down well with any drunk crowd.

Felix closes his eyes for a moment, ignoring the words that Sylvain is singing, letting his voice wash over him in a moment of weakness.

He remembers when Sylvain used to sing to him when they were children. When Felix had cried, Sylvain would fuss over him. Dimitri would look on, unsure what to do, while Ingrid had no patience for any of it. Sylvain would hug him and hum or sing and tell Felix, “It’s all alright now, isn’t it?”

He’d longed to hear Sylvain’s voice when he’d been taken to Garreg Mach. Felix had cried a lot, at first. His family were dead, his home burned to the ground, and no one would tell him why. He’d been pulled away from Dimitri and placed in the monastery and expected to become a Witcher.

And he’d cried and cried and asked for Glenn, for his mother, his father, for Sylvain, for Dimitri, for anyone he loved to hold him.

No one had held him, and no one had sang to him. No one had been cruel, necessarily, but it had been made clear to Felix that his old life was over. It was to be forgotten. He no longer had the privilege of crying over what he couldn’t change.

No one, even now, had ever told him why he couldn’t have gone with Dimitri back to Fhirdiad and stayed with the royal family. No one ever explained why the last Fraldarius was taken to be a Witcher and by the time Felix had thought to ask, no one would give a straight answer.

He certainly doesn’t consider _it was the will of the Goddess_ an answer, but that’s all the Archbishop would tell him.

And when Felix had next seen Dimitri, his friend was gone and replaced by a monster wearing his skin.

* * *

The crowd grows bigger, and Felix eats quietly in a corner, seating himself so he can see as much of the area as possible. Sylvain works the room, drawing eyes to him like a flame in the darkness. His shirt is loose and unbuttoned low on his chest. Even from his safe distance, Felix can see how warm he is, his own eyes following Sylvain’s hand as he brushes sweaty hair away from his face. Hair that’s dishevelled and soft looking, and when he wonders how it would feel to touch, Felix has to force himself to look away, irritated with himself.

He’s not sure how he feels about Sylvain being here, but he doubts it’s a coincidence. And a nagging idea begins to eat away at him.

Sylvain should be in Faerghus, standing alongside Dimitri as he fights off the invaders from the Empire. And Dimitri has allied with Archbishop Rhea and the combined might of the Church – the Church that Edelgard wants to bring down. Felix wonders if Rhea wants him back, fighting on her side. She covets her Witchers and their power.

Although…

Rhea had coveted Byleth the most. If she wanted any of the Witchers that have gone astray to come back to the Church, it would be Byleth.

Felix’s eyes drift back to Sylvain, now looking at the way he sings and ingratiates himself with the crowd with suspicion. There is no way the future Margrave Gautier is here because he’s running away from a woman. If nothing else, _that_ is a lie.

Once again, Sylvain glances in Felix’s direction. But this time, the smile on his face freezes at Felix’s stony expression and narrowed eyes.

* * *

“Are you following me?”

Felix fires the question at Sylvain as soon as he slides into the seat opposite him in his dark corner, a drink in his hand. The crowd has gotten drunker and rowdier – too rowdy to even listen to Sylvain’s songs. Felix had watched and waited, expecting Sylvain to come to him once he’d finished up.

Sylvain looks unsurprised by the question, and takes a long gulp of ale before replying lazily, “If I recall correctly, I got here before you.”

Felix bristles. “Don’t bullshit me,” he warns in a low voice.

His tone makes Sylvain sharpen. “What makes you think I’m bullshitting you?”

“Why are you in Leicester?”

“I told you, there was a–“

“ _Why_ ,” Felix repeats, practically hissing the words, “are you in Leicester?”

Sylvain’s mouth snaps shut, and he looks away, back over the room that Felix has been watching for hours. When he speaks again, his voice is much quieter.

“I had to get away.”

Felix digests this. “From what?”

Sylvain shrugs. “The King. The Archbishop. Pick one.”

Despite not trusting Dimitri or Rhea either, Felix remains suspicious. “Why?”

“Dimitri isn’t the same as he was when we were kids. And Rhea…” He briefly hesitates. “It’s like they’re both bringing out the worst in each other. Dimitri keeps talking to the dead.”

Felix stares. “Spectres?”

Sylvain laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “No. I’d call them delusions. He says he’s going to avenge them.” He meets Felix’s eyes, a grim expression crossing his face. “He blames the Emperor for everything, you know? What happened to your family. The tragedy at Duscur. And Rhea encourages him.”

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that. He thinks of the Dimitri he’d seen when he’d been sent to Fearghus before. He’d been a bloodthirsty animal. But… “The Emperor was a child when those two events occurred.”

Grimacing, Sylvain runs a hand through his hair, once more scanning the room. Felix realises he’s agitated. “I’m aware of that. It doesn’t stop Dimitri from blaming her.”

“So you left.”

“I couldn’t fight for him,” Sylvain whispers. Felix is torn, because he doesn’t know whether to believe him or not. There’s also a part of him that wants to chastise Sylvain for leaving. “And they’re losing,” Sylvain continues, unaware of Felix’s inner turmoil. “It won’t be long before Edelgard wins. She’ll be here, next. I was going to Almyra, before I saw you. I’d probably have already been on my way there if the wyverns you killed hadn’t been making it impossible.”

“And then you followed me?”

“I couldn’t leave it like that, Felix. I _have_ missed you. I thought about you so much but everyone told me you probably wouldn’t even remember me, if you became a Witcher.”

“Some people don’t remember their lives from before,” Felix replies, absently. Perhaps that’s a blessing in disguise.

“Yeah, I met one like that. Catherine?”

Felix remembers Catherine well. She’s devoted to the Archbishop, so it’s no surprise Sylvain has met her. He nods.

“Why doesn’t she remember?”

Shrugging, Felix looks down at his empty glass. “The trials are difficult, and painful. For some the pain erases everything.”

They say the strongest Witchers are the ones who don’t remember. Felix doesn’t agree with that.

Sylvain looks stricken, but Felix decides he’s had enough of this conversation. He doesn’t want questions about being a Witcher, or becoming one. He doesn’t want Sylvain’s pity.

And he doesn’t want Sylvain following him. Abruptly, he stands.

“Go to Almyra, Sylvain,” he says shortly.

“What? Felix–“

“You’d think someone who has run away like this would be better at keeping a low profile.” Felix glances around the room, although no one seems to be paying them any attention. But anyone here would be able to give a description of Sylvain to someone searching for a disloyal Faerghus noble. “Disappear, Sylvain, and stop following me.”

He turns and leaves, for the second time walking away from Sylvain.

* * * 

Felix isn’t asleep when he hears the footsteps approaching. Heavy. _Amour_ , he thinks. Silently, he gets out of bed and picks up his sword – regular, not silver, because these are men and not monsters, even if sometimes the lines are blurred.

On quiet feet he moves towards the door, positioning himself for when they burst in. They’re closer now, and he can hear the clang of their armour, their attempts to muffle the sound.

He frowns as they go right past his room without stopping.

He could ignore this, he knows. Whatever this is, it isn’t business a Witcher needs to get involved in. Soldiers coming in the dead of night to drag someone out of their bed. Sadly not uncommon, even here in Leicester where they might try to pretend that they’re less brutish than Adrestia or Faerghus. Felix knows they’re all the same underneath.

Sylvain’s words replay in his head, as they have been all night, and Felix just _knows_. Sylvain is in trouble.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and opens the door.

* * * 

The sound of fighting makes Sylvain’s room easy to find. When Felix gets there, he sees two soldiers wearing Fearghus blue already on the ground and likely dead, while three others have Sylvain backed into a corner.

Sylvain is shirtless, but he looks unharmed.

In his hands he holds a glowing lance, and Felix realises that not only has Sylvain run away from his king and country, he’s taken his relic with him. His family’s relic, it might be argued, but Felix knows the Church considers them their own property.

Silently, Felix launches forward, killing one man before they even know he’s there. With a yell, another of the soldiers turn to Felix, but they have no chance against both him and Sylvain. When it’s over, Felix stares down at the bodies, at the blood dripping from his sword.

Sylvain laughs bitterly. “I’m going to have to give Raphael all the money I made tonight.”

Felix steps away, back towards the door of Sylvain’s room, ready to leave again. But he can’t help but ask. “Who?”

“Guy who owns this place. Runs it with his sister. You met him earlier? His muscles have muscles.”

Recalling the burly man that he’d spoken to and ordered his food from, Felix nods. “You need to get out of here.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain replies shakily. “Yeah. Maybe I should have just let them finish me off.”

Felix rounds on him, furious. “Don’t say that, you asshole. Let’s go.”

Sylvain’s face splits into a smile at that. “Were you worried, Felix? Want to keep an eye on me to make sure I don’t get killed?”

Felix steps closer. The room is dark, and he knows that Sylvain can only see by the light the Lance of Ruin is emitting. He moves fast, knocking the lance of his hands, ignoring Sylvain’s startled noise.

“Get your things and meet me in stables,” is all he says, voice frigid.

Ignoring Sylvain’s attempts at placation, Felix makes his way back to his own room, where he hurriedly dresses and picks up his own meagre belongings.

He’s not surprised to be at the stables before Sylvain, and he takes the time to carefully scout the area. But the night is still. Nothing to indicate there are any more Faerghus soldiers waiting in the darkness, planning an ambush.

It’s not long before Sylvain arrives, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry, I had to speak to Raphael.” He grimaces. “We’re leaving him with dead bodies to deal with, you know.”

“Not my problem.”

“I hope the money makes up for it,” Sylvain mutters, heading towards his own horse. Felix sees he has the Lance of Ruin wrapped up and strapped to his back.

“You should get rid of that,” he says, impatient. “Get a less inconspicuous weapon.”

“Can’t do that,” Sylvain replies as he saddles his horse, too cheerful for Felix’s liking.

Felix’s lips thin, but he says nothing as he hauls himself onto his own horse. It’s not long before they’re both making their way out of the town, moving quickly. When they reach a crossroads just beyond the outskirts, Felix brings his horse to a stop and turns to Sylvain. He can see the beginnings of dawn in the distance.

“Do you need money?” he asks, impatient, still scanning the area for a possible ambush.

“Nah,” is the easy reply. “It’s not hard to make money with this–“ Sylvain indicates the lute hanging around his waist” – and my beautiful voice and face.”

The reminder of Sylvain’s voice makes Felix remember the song he’d been singing last night. There’s a part of him that wants to know if Sylvain meant what he’d been singing about him, but he pushes that thought down. Instead, he looks away, to the west, where the sky is still dark.

“Fine. Go to Almyra. Sing your songs there.” He turns his horse to face the road that will lead to Derdriu.

“Come with me.” Sylvain’s rushed words make Felix startle in surprise.

“What?”

“Come with me,” he repeats, moving his horse closer to Felix’s. “Let’s get away from Fódlan altogether. Let them all kill each other. Why should we care? Think about it.” The cajoling tone in Sylvain’s voice is so desperately nostalgic to Felix, he feels his breath catch. Memories of a much simpler and happier time rise up in him, when Sylvain’s cajoling had been to get them to climb a big tree or go swimming in the river. “You can kill monsters anywhere. I can sing anywhere,” Sylvain goes on. “I’m sure we can both learn enough Almyran to get by. We can keep our promise, Felix.”

And Felix, goddess help him, is tempted. He’s never been to Almyra, but he knows it’s warmer and sunnier than Fódlan. He imagines what Sylvain would be like there, soaking up the sun, learning Almyran songs to sing.

But then he remembers that he still doesn’t quite trust this Sylvain. No matter how similar he might be to his childhood friend, they’ve both been through too much for it to be the same.

Felix has seen too much to be naive, and think he can run away to a different country and everything will suddenly be better.

Pressing his heels into his horse, Felix begins moving away, going north.

Behind him, he hears Sylvain swear. “Felix?”

“Don’t shout,” Felix snaps, exasperated. “I’m going to Derdriu. Do what you want.” He doesn’t slow down.

“I’m going with you!” Sylvain calls out, making Felix bristle again. Is he trying to draw attention to them? It only takes a moment before Sylvain is trotting along by Felix’s side.

Felix glances sidelong at him.

“Can’t be without my knight in shining armour.” Sylvain leans towards Felix and bats his eyelashes at him.

“Ugh. Shut up.” Felix looks straight ahead, feeling conflicted. “Fine. I’ll go with you as far as Derdriu. But then you’re on your own.”

“Thanks, Felix.” Sylvain sounds genuinely grateful, and they lapse into silence for a moment.

“Why don’t you just go back?” Felix asks gruffly, still keeping his eyes fixed ahead.

It takes a long time for Sylvain to answer. “I can’t.” His voice turns sly. “Not unless you come with me.”

Felix scoffs, but Sylvain seems to be warming to the idea.

“Think about it! We’ll all be back together again – us, Dimitri, Ingrid. We can help His Highness, break the stalemate–“

“Stalemate?” Felix interrupts sharply. “You said Edelgard was winning.”

Sylvain shrugs. “She will win, eventually.”

“You said it won’t be long before Edeglard wins. Which is it, Sylvain?”

He glances over at Sylvain. The sky is brightening; the first rays of dawn are catching on his hair.

“Can’t it be both?” Sylvain responds. “It was a stalemate when I left – neither one have the power to overwhelm the other. But that won’t last, and Edelgard has more resources. And they say some of the Alliance nobles are willing to work with her. Dimitri has Rhea, and her Witchers and knights, but little else. Most of Faerghus has been destroyed by the war, Felix.”

Felix knows what they say about those who flee the losing side. Rats. Rats fleeing a sinking ship. And Dimitri had thought to spare men to kill one of those rats.

For a long time he says nothing, considering what Sylvain has said. He hates that he can’t just trust him, and believe what he’s saying. But he’s already made the decision to go to Derdriu with Sylvain, and he’s not going to go back on that.

“We need to get off the road,” he eventually says. “You’re too conspicuous. If we take one of the quieter routes to Derdriu it’ll take longer, but it’s safer. If you can keep a low profile.”

Sylvain laughs. “I make my coin by singing, Felix. There’s nothing low profile about it.”

Felix grumbles under his breath and slides a look over at him. He’s wearing the same loose shirt from last night, much of his chest still on display.

“Aren’t you cold in that?”

Sylvain laughs again, louder, and puffs out his chest. “I’m from Gautier, I never get cold.”

He’s still laughing as Felix scowls and leads them down a side road.

* * * 

It will likely take them about a week, at least, to get to Derdriu via the roundabout route Felix has planned for them.

“I really am sorry, Felix,” Sylvain says once they’ve stopped for a break in a small village. Felix has paid for the hot food they’re currently eating.

“Don’t worry about it,” he responds, gruff.

“I just couldn’t leave Raphael with nothing, you know?”

“I said, don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you. How about I write you another song?”

Felix flushes. “Don’t.” He still hasn’t brought up the song he’d heard last night, too embarrassed about it. They’ve spent the morning in relative silence – Sylvain seemed to realise that Felix needed some space and had been quiet.

“Holst Goneril paid me well for the wyverns,” he says quietly, hoping that will stop Sylvain worrying about money or thinking about another song. He has enough to see both of them to Derdriu without starving or having to sleep on the road, he’s sure.

“Holst?” Sylvain looks at him with interest. “Of course, I’m guessing you took the job from him. Have you ever met his sister?”

Felix shakes his head. He’s heard of the sister, of course. Hilda Goneril. But never met her.

“She’s in Derdriu, now. Apparently she’s indispensable to Claude.”

Felix stops eating and raises his head to look at Sylvain. “How do you know that?”

A look of surprise crosses Sylvain’s face before it smooths out. “Oh, you know. I’m a bard. We trade in secrets as much as we trade in songs.”

There’s something about that answer that Felix doesn’t like, but he’s not sure what it is, so he remains quiet. It’s not a secret that Hilda Goneril is in Derdriu, he’s sure. It’s likely common knowledge.

“She’s supposed to be very beautiful, you know.”

“I don’t care.”

Sylvain is undeterred. “Maybe I can meet her. You’ve worked for Claude, haven’t you? Maybe you can introduce us.” At Felix’s narrowed eyes, Sylvain shrugs. “If you think Rhea hasn’t been keeping tabs on you, you’d be wrong.”

Felix drops his eyes, disquieted. He’s always suspected it, but it unsettles him to actually hear it. “Did you have much to do with her?”

“Ah, not that much. I think she could sense I was a _sinner_. She was always surrounded by her own people, and mostly only spoke to Dimitri when she wasn’t. Even when we had meetings and she’d speak, it was like he was the only one she was talking to.”

Felix wonders how Dimitri handles that. Rhea’s undivided attention can be a bit much, and he had only ever had it briefly, as a child, before they’d done some tests and deemed him suitable to be a Witcher but not… something else. He’d been glad to lose it.

Although it had been Byleth who’d received that attention next.

“Rhea’s angry,” Sylvain tells him in a low voice. “What Edelgard is doing is an affront against the Goddess, and all that. She’s particularly sore about the sacking of Garreg Mach. And Dimitri’s angry too. They feed off each other’s anger.” His face darkens. “It’s why we’ll lose. I don’t know the Emperor. Saw her once, across a battlefield. She wears armour the colour of blood and cuts down everything in front of her with an axe. I saw enough for me to know she isn’t losing her head in fury over Dimitri and Rhea. Instead, she’s making plans and plots and putting together strategies for not only taking over Faerghus, but Leicester too.”

He’s as serious as Felix has ever seen him.

“Dimitri hardly listens to anyone,” Sylvain whispers. “Mostly just Rhea. I felt like I was trying to convince a madman not to send us all to our deaths. So many people are dying, Felix. So I left. And I know what that makes me.”

A voice calls out before Felix can reply, ending this conversation, for now.

“Witcher!”

He stands, hand on his sword, as a woman sprints across the field to them. They’re sitting on the outskirts of the small villager, horses tied up and grazing nearby.

“What?”

“You’re a Witcher, they say.” The woman comes to a stop a safe distance away, chest heaving, looking from him to Sylvain warily.

“I am.”

She nods. “We have drowners, just down the river. Not far. They’ve been a bother. Few of the men have tried to clear them out, but–“

Felix interrupts her, having heard enough. “What direction?”

The woman points northwest, and Felix half turns towards Sylvain. “Wait here,” he instructs, ignoring Sylvain’s protests as he checks his swords and makes sure he has potions on his belt. Without looking back, he strides off in the direction the woman had indicated.

* * * 

Felix has fought plenty of drowners in his time. He knows how to handle them, but he also knows he has to be careful. Drowners are dangerous in large numbers – and they’re always in packs.

Thankfully, this isn’t the largest group he’s ever encountered, and he begins strategically taking them out, careful not to let himself get overwhelmed or cornered.

Which is to say, he has it under control, because this is his _job_ and he is exceptional at it.

So the last thing he needs is Sylvain _fucking_ Gautier, arriving with a yell and throwing himself into the mix with his Lance of Ruin.

“What are you doing?” he calls out, annoyed and immediately seeing that the remaining drowners will converge around Sylvain.

“I’m helping!” Sylvain flippantly replies, skewering one monster on his lance. But the rest are quickly surrounding him, and Felix dashes forward with a grunt, faster with his sword than Sylvain is with his lance. He prevents them from overwhelming him, even while he begrudgingly recognises that Sylvain is able to handle himself.

It still doesn’t stop him from glaring once all the drowners are dead.

“I told you to wait for me.”

Sylvain shrugs, looking around at the fallen monsters. “Figured I’d earn my keep.”

“Your– Sylvain, it’s dangerous.”

“What isn’t?”

“You’re not a Witcher! This is my job. You’ll only get yourself killed.”

The lazy shrug of Sylvain’s shoulders seems to say _who cares_. “Look,” he cajoles. “It’s fine. Everyone’s fine. We helped the village. They can pay you–“

“They can’t pay me.”

Sylvain pauses at Felix’s interruption. “How do you know?”

Felix scoffs. “They’re poor, Sylvain. Didn’t you see when we passed through? Couldn’t you tell by the food?”

“Ah, I guess.” Sylvain rubs the back of his neck, looking back towards the village.

“Anyway,” Felix goes on, “it’s the lord that’s supposed to pay for stuff like this.”

“They’re supposed to hire you, too.”

“This is Riegan territory. The lord is in Derdriu.” Felix turns as he hears someone approach. It’s the woman from before, who is still looking between both of them warily.

“It’s as you say, Witcher.” She holds out a folded scrap of paper. “All we can do is provide you with this letter for the Duke. He’ll be obliged to pay you.”

Sylvain is incredulous. “You think the Duke will believe that? Some dirty scrap of paper?”

Felix grits his teeth and accepts the letter. “Claude knows me.” Addressing the woman, he asks, “Is this the only area they’ve been seen in?”

She nods. “Thank you for your help, Witcher,” she says stiffly. “We can provide you with a bed if you’re staying–“

“No.” Felix’s response is immediate. “We’re leaving.” He glances back at Sylvain, resplendent in the sunlight; red hair glowing just as much as the weapon he holds. He smiles at Felix, who has to look away, feeling that unfamiliar warmth curling through him again at the sight.

There is nothing inconspicuous about this man.

“We’re leaving right now.”

***

The side roads are quiet as they journey north. The merchants all use the main roads – well maintained and well guarded. Busy. Far too many eyes. Here they pass only locals, or those on their way to the main roads, and occasional Alliance soldiers, who watch Felix and Sylvain with wary eyes.

They stick out, and it bothers Felix, but there’s little to be done about it. At least Alliance soldiers won’t be reporting back to the Kingdom.

He remains on guard as they travel, and watches Sylvain out of the corner of his eye, realising that despite the careless air he’s careful to project, Sylvain is also wary.

He talks, though. He talks so much. His voice is just as pleasant speaking as it is singing, and Felix, so used to being alone, finds he likes it.

Sylvain tells him of Faerghus. Separated from the Church and its information network, Felix doesn’t get much news of Faerghus. He hadn’t heard that Sylvain’s father had died, making Sylvain the new Margrave Gautier.

He sees the guilt when Sylvain tells him that, because by leaving he’s left the people of Gautier vulnerable.

“Technically, Gautier is in charge of Fraldarius now, so I suppose I’ve abandoned them, too.”

Felix’s shoulders tense, but he ignores the way Sylvain is looking at him. Fraldarius hasn’t been his home for a long time. It’s always been made clear to him that he can’t go back and reclaim what’s been lost.

“What about your brother?” is all he asks, instead, more brusque than he should.

“He’s dead, too.” The brittle quality of Sylvain’s voice leaves Felix quiet, but privately he can’t help but be glad about that. Miklan Gautier wouldn’t be missed by anyone.

Not even Sylvain, he’d wager.

***

Sylvain sings.

He’s careful to do it when they’re alone, with no other travellers around them, so as not to draw undue attention. And he can’t play his lute, because he his hands are holding the reins of his horse.

But he sings.

And Felix listens.

Mostly he sings old Faerghus folk songs, most of which Felix doesn’t know or remember, but occasionally a chorus will strike him as familiar, the lilting notes stirring a memory – often of his mother, who’d liked to hum and sing quietly to herself.

He’d forgotten that about her.

On the evening of their third day travelling, Felix asks, “When did you start singing?”

Sylvain glances at him, surprised. “I’ve been learning since I was a child. Along with the lute. Don’t you remember?”

He frowns. “No. I don’t remember… everything.”

A pause. “Oh. Right. Well, my father hated it. Thought it was pointless. So I decided to stick with it for just that reason. It’s come in handy, as you can see.”

“Do you write many songs yourself?”

Sylvain leans in closer, a smirk curling his mouth. “Only when I’m feeling particularly inspired.”

“Is that what that song about me was?” Felix asks sharply. “Inspired?”

“You know it,” is the easy reply. “I could sing an entire opera about you, Felix.”

The way Sylvain sighs his name sends heat through him. “That’s… ridiculous.”

“Is it weird that I wish I’d seen you kill those wyverns?”

“ _Yes_.”

Sylvain ignores his answer even though he’d asked the question. “I saw how you moved when you attacked those soldiers in my room. Or when you killed those monsters the other day. It’s like…” He sighs. “It’s like dancing. I want to find the music to go with it and I want to sing to everyone about it. About you.”

And then he shrugs like he hasn’t just said something like _that_. Like Felix isn’t suddenly burning.

“That’s ridiculous,” Felix says weakly, not even realising he’s repeating himself.

Sylvain smiles. It’s a warm smile, one that reaches his eyes, making them crinkle. “Probably,” he agrees.

***

“ _Witcher, Witcher, Witcher_ ,” Sylvain sings, strumming his lute. His skin is flushed from ale and his hair catches the last rays of light from the sun.

They’re sitting outside at the back of the inn they’re staying at for the night. It’s quiet, with few guests passing through. Felix is, as always, on guard, and refused to drink, but Sylvain seems almost suspiciously at ease.

And he’s singing, leaning into Felix on the bench they’re sitting at, allowing Felix to feel how warm he is.

“ _What magic do you cast?_

_To steal my heart so fast?_

_I–"_ And here, Sylvain draws out the word “– _should call you the bewitcher_.”

Felix, flushing, shoves Sylvain away from him, but can’t quite hide his smile despite his embarrassment.

Sylvain regains his balance easily, not even making a bum note on his lute as he continues to play, looking at Felix with undisguised delight.

“ _Witcher, Witcher!_ ” he begins to sing again.

“ _Your blush is so ripe,_

 _It makes me want to bite–_ “

Felix, with his eyes already fixed on Sylvain’s mouth, has the sudden mental image of that mouth on his skin, and he shoves Sylvain again, harder than before, this time making Sylvain stop playing. Lust – because he’s figured out that’s what it is – courses through him. It’s not a wholly unfamiliar feeling, and well, while there’s plenty of people who don’t like Witchers, there’s also plenty who want to fuck them. It’s rare, but Felix has been known to take people up on the offer.

But this is different. And this is Sylvain, who he’s still not sure if he can trust, because how can Felix trust anyone?

Sylvain doesn’t talk to him like he’s a Witcher, though. He talks to him like he’s Felix; the same Felix he’d known years ago.

Sylvain stops playing, but still has a smile on his lips. “Felix, I’m surprised you blush so much.” He waggles his eyebrows. “You hear such rumours about Witchers.”

Felix crosses his arms and looks away, suddenly cold. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“Oh, trust me, I don’t.” Carefully, he sets his lute down on the bench and stands, stepping close to Felix, who is suddenly aware of how just how tall Sylvain is.

Sylvain edges into his personal space. They both know Felix can remove him easily if he wants, so he seems to take Felix’s lack of retaliation as acceptance. His hand reaches up slowly and he presses the back of his fingers against Felix’s face.

That simple touch is enough to send Felix jerking backwards, out of Sylvain’s reach. His own hand raises to touch the place Sylvain just had, feeling the heat of his cheeks for himself.

Sylvain doesn’t push forward again, but nor does he step backwards. His hand is still raised, like he’s reaching out. But he just keeps staring at Felix with an unfathomable expression.

Felix takes another step back. “I’m going to bed,” he declares, and then realises that almost sounds like an invitation. “Alone,” he clarifies, clumsily, not even sure if that’s what he wants.

Sylvain’s eyebrows raise and he sits back down on the bench, a smile playing at his lips. He picks up his lute again and gives a nod. “Goodnight, Felix.”

Felix does not flee at the sound of Sylvain singing again – thankfully, not about him this time. He holds his head high and wills the blush on his face to disappear as he stalks through the inn towards his room.

***

The journey to Derdriu is going to take longer than a week. Felix is stopped and his help requested at several more villages. More drowners, a kikimora, and several demonic beasts. It’s the latter that worries Felix the most, and when Sylvain’s lance is most appreciated. Sylvain sees Felix’s magic for the first time – different from the Reason magic he’s learned himself. There’s less singing, because by the time they make it to an inn, they’re both exhausted. All they care about is eating and sleeping.

It’s another day, and another battle. Felix is staring down at the corpse of a demonic beast, his sword and armour covered in blood. “There’s something really wrong going on.”

Sylvain’s face is clouded. “This is what happened in Faerghus, before the Empire officially invaded. We were never able to prove it was the Empire’s doing, but…”

Swearing under his breath, Felix turns away, agitated, feeling like he’s being drawn into something he’d really rather avoid.

“Why isn’t the Duke doing something?”

“He’s doing _something_ , I’m sure,” Felix answers. He doesn’t know Claude well, but he knows him enough to know that. However, he’s still surprised that there are so few soldiers here. The townspeople had told him they’d sent word to Derdriu but no support has arrived. Which makes Felix think that whatever is wrong is happening there, too.

Wincing, Felix rolls his shoulder back. He’d taken a nasty hit. It’s only the fact that he’s more resilient and heals faster than the average person that he’s still standing. But Sylvain notices it.

“Are you hurt?” He strides over, eyes concerned as he inspects Felix.

“It’s nothing.” It will be nothing, at least. In a while.

But Sylvain isn’t having it. “I know Faith magic. Not much, but enough to help.”

“It’s fine, Sylvain,” he grits out through the pain.

“Uh-huh. That’s your sword arm, Felix.” He raises his hands, his voice turning smooth and low. “Please. I’ll be gentle.”

 _Damn Sylvain_ , Felix thinks. Does he have any idea what he’s doing when he says things like that? As he nods his acceptance, and sees Sylvain smile, Felix knows the answer is yes. They’ve only been travelling for a short time together, but he sees how Sylvain talks to people – charming and cajoling and downright flirtatious. It’s enough to make him wary of how Sylvain talks to _him_ , and to be relieved he hadn’t invited Sylvain into his bed, because Felix gets the impression it would mean more to him than it would to Sylvain.

People think Witchers have no feelings. That they’re mutants; killing machines with no emotions. It’s not true, of course, but Felix is usually happy enough to let people think that. Let them think they can’t hurt him.

The truth is that Felix feels everything just as much as he did on the day his family died.

Sylvain’s magic isn’t the strongest, but it does what’s needed on the wound. Felix feels his ripped and bruised flesh stitching back together. The pain recedes.

He watches Sylvain the whole time – the look of concentration on his face. His brows are furrowed, his eyes focused on Felix’s shoulder. His long eyelashes flutter against his cheek.

Felix sighs when Sylvain finishes and lifts his head.

“Better?”

He nods. “Thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence as tension falls between them. Like always, it’s Felix who looks away first.

“That was a long battle,” Felix says gruffly, assessing Sylvain’s own state out of the corner of his eyes. But he appears uninjured. “We should get back and tell them the beast is dead and see if they have a place to stay for the night.”

Sylvain casts a look at the creature. “Yeah,” he agrees. Looking back up at Felix, he goes on, “Are you really sure you don’t want to go to Almyra? No demonic beasts there, I’m sure.”

Felix says nothing as he turns back towards the village. He doesn’t admit that the same thought has occurred to him.

***

The only inn in the village is small, and poorly furnished. It’s still not the worst place Felix has ever stayed in, but he and Sylvain have to share a room.

He spends a long time scrubbing himself clean in a wooden bath at the back of the inn. Sylvain had washed up earlier and is now, presumably, sleeping. When he finally makes his way back inside, the innkeeper tells him his clothes and armour have been washed and will be dry in the morning.

They’ve been bending over backwards to be accommodating to the people who killed the monster terrorising the village. 

Felix nods his thanks and makes his way up to his – their – bedroom. Inside, there’s just one candle still lit, with Sylvain already lying down in the bed furthest away from the door. Quietly, Felix snuffs out the candle and slides into his own bed, lying on his back as he listens to Sylvain’s breathing.

He’s awake, that much is clear, and after a moment, Felix can hear him moving. He turns his head slightly, just enough to see Sylvain sit up and notice that he’s not wearing a shirt.

“Hey, Felix?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wondering… why did you leave the Church? The Archbishop didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

Felix lets out a long breath. He’s surprised Sylvain hasn’t asked sooner. “Have you heard of Byleth Eisner?”

“Sure. The Ashen Demon, right? She’s Duke Riegan’s pet Witcher now.”

Scoffing, Felix sits up, resting against the headboard. “She’s no one’s pet.”

“Why, Felix,” Sylvain’s voice has a sly tone. “Are you sweet on her? Riegan won’t like that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” is Felix’s impatient reply. “She was the only one at Garreg Mach that posed a challenge to me. We trained together. Her parents died when she was young, and she was taken in.”

“Like you?”

In the darkness, Felix nods. “She has the Crest of Flames.”

“Huh. Thought that died out.”

“Clearly not. They say…” And here, Felix briefly hesitates, not for the first time wondering if Sylvain really has cut all his ties with Faerghus. “They say they take children in for their own safety. That’s what I was told. That there were people who wanted to hurt me, because of who my family was. I never understood why they couldn’t send me to Fhirdiad with Dimitri. And every child taken in gets tested. For a Crest, and for something else.”

“Something else?” Sylvain’s interest is clear.

“The Archbishop took an interest in every child, like she was… looking for something.” He remembers that. He hadn’t liked it and when Rhea had tried to soothe his tears, he’d just cried more. “I didn’t know what it was. Most of the children were sent to the orphanage. Nearly all of them end up in the Church in some way. Only some of us went into Witcher training. So did Byleth, but Rhea also found what she was looking for.”

“Which was?”

Again Felix hesitates. But in the end – perhaps due to the intimacy of the darkness, or due to Sylvain’s soothing voice – he tells him. “We didn’t find out until we were much older, but Rhea thought Byleth was a vessel for the Goddess.” He falls silent, watching Sylvain’s reaction carefully. It may be dark, but Felix can see better than the average person.

Sylvain’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“There were rituals that she put Byleth through. Nothing happened, but Rhea got more and more obsessed and started using strange magic. Then things with Adrestia started falling apart. We think that’s what made Rhea more desperate. We didn’t know what she’d do next. I told Byleth I’d help her get away.”

“You two were close, weren’t you?”

“We were friends,” Felix replies simply. He doesn’t need to tell Sylvain that she was his only friend. Everyone thought Byleth was strange and, well, she was. Still is, he’s sure. But she hadn’t filled silences with empty words. She trained as much as he did. They both knew the other was strong enough to survive. It had been a good foundation for friendship, and in the end, she’d been the only person he’d trusted at Garreg Mach.

“Witchers are expected to be servants of the Church. I never cared for that. And technically, there’s nothing to stop us from leaving. Others have before. But I felt like she wouldn’t let Byleth go. She… she coveted Byleth.”

“How’d you get away?”

“Wasn’t that difficult, in the end,” Felix responds shortly. He's downplaying it. But that’s when Claude got involved and he thinks it might be best not to let that be known.

“Aw, Felix, there’s a story you’re not telling me there. I’m sure it would make a great song.”

“I’m sure,” is his dry response. “But, Sylvain, the Archbishop didn’t tell you any of this?”

“Nah, like I said, she didn’t talk to any of us. I did hear her lament a few times about how much she missed Byleth. She always sounded so sad. Sorry to say she didn't seem to feel the same way about you.”

Felix snorts. “I wouldn’t expect her to.”

“When did you last see Byleth?”

“When I left her with Claude a few years ago. I’ve done a few jobs for him since then, but he usually uses a messenger.”

Sylvain makes a noise of acknowledgement. “Will you visit her when we get to Derdriu?”

Felix shrugs. “Haven’t thought about it.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve other things on my mind, Sylvain.”

“But you said you were friends–“

“Why are you pushing this?” Felix asks sharply. “Is there a reason you care so much?”

Sylvain turns cajoling. “I’m just curious about the woman you call a friend.”

“Jealous?” Felix fires the word out without thinking, and then cringes at himself.

“Well, yeah, actually.” Sylvain’s response surprises him. “She was with you when I wasn’t able to be. But I’m glad you had her.”

Felix turns, crossing his legs as he faces Sylvain, who’s still sitting up in his own bed. His eyes are closed. “It’s not your fault you weren’t there.”

He sees Sylvain lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I know. But it seemed cruel. You lost your family, we lost your family… but you were still there. We should have been allowed to see you.”

“No one questions the Church,” Felix sighs. “And this is what they’ve always done. They take in orphans.”

Sylvain opens his eyes and mirrors Felix’s position. They both sit cross legged facing each other, only a few feet apart. A sliver of moonlight sneaks in through the curtains, illuminating Sylvain’s bare chest. Felix takes in the sight greedily, knowing Sylvain won’t be able to tell where he’s looking.

“It’s messed up.” Sylvain sounds tired. “And I hate how I didn’t question it until recently. Even by leaving, I’m not helping. I’m not changing anything.” He groans, and Felix thinks this is the most sincere he’s ever heard Sylvain. “And I keep thinking about how I’ve left Ingrid there.”

“How was she, before you left?” Felix asks, hesitantly. Ingrid had been betrothed to Glenn. She lost a lot that night, too.

Sylvain lowers his head. “She’s devoted to being His Majesty’s knight. She threw herself into that after… after losing Glenn. So she’ll be pretty pissed at me.”

Felix is silent, trying to imagine Ingrid now, standing as a knight beside Dimitri. He stretches out his legs, placing his feet on the floor, and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. With a pang, he realises that there’s something he hasn’t told Sylvain, and despite how saying the words makes heat crawl up his neck, he forces them out. “I missed you, too. All of you.”

Sylvain’s answering smile is breathtaking. Once again he mirrors Felix’s position, and edges his foot forward to nudge his ankle. “I hope you aren’t gonna dump me as soon as we get to Derdriu. I still haven’t forgotten our promise.”

Felix doesn’t move away from Sylvain’s touch. He has the urge to stand up, step between Sylvain’s legs, grab his hair, and yank his head up so their lips could touch. But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he swallows, and says gruffly, “Neither have I.”

It’s clearly a good enough answer for Sylvain, because he beams in response.

***

The unrest continues to increase as they travel. Strange rumours reach them of mages and dark magic being linked to the monsters.

Felix’s skin prickles. But not from magic.

“We’re being followed. Or watched,” he tells Sylvain quietly one night over a meal in a busy inn.

“I’m not surprised. But we’re almost at Derdriu. We can lose them there,” Sylvain mutters as he hunches over his stew.

Felix watches him for a moment, wondering at how disinterested he seems at the idea of being followed. But Sylvain doesn’t look up, and Felix decides not to press him, and instead casts his gaze around the busy inn. They’d had some people square up to them earlier, not liking to see a Witcher, but the innkeeper had put a stop to that.

Since then, he and Sylvain have been given a wide berth.

In the background, a bard is singing. She has a pretty face and red hair, and a nice voice that Felix has been enjoying. At first she’d been singing the kind of upbeat dittys that a drinking crowd always likes, but now, as the evening wears on, she’s begun singing slower, more sombre songs. The kind of songs that make men question their lives.

Not that Felix is questioning his, as such. He’s just enjoying the way her voice sounds.

The bard finishes a song about a woman who lost her sweetheart to war. There’s a hushed atmosphere in the inn, and even Sylvain raises his head to watch and listen.

When she finishes that song, the bard smiles with glassy eyes and says, “I’d like to sing something from my homeland next. It might surprise you all to know, but I’m from Faerghus.”

That rouses the crowd a little, who give a little jeer and make jokes about her being too nice to be from cold Faerghus. Felix meets Sylvain’s eyes across their table.

“It’s probably a coincidence,” Sylvain murmurs.

“Maybe,” Felix mutters in response. There are plenty of people from Faerghus – and Adrestia – in Leicester. It’s not that unusual. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

The bard smiles and shushes the crowd, who settle down. She’s cute, but she holds herself well, more than able to handle her audience.

On her lute, she strums out a series of melancholic chords. Even though he doesn’t recognise the melody, it seems about right, Felix thinks, for a Faerghus song.

The bard begins singing.

“ _It was a cold, dark night of the Ethereal Moon,_

 _The night Fraldarius died._ ”

Felix freezes in surprise, eyes widening as he watches this sweet bard sing a song about the night his family was murdered.

“ _The wind blew fierce_

_And the snow fell hard,_

_The night Fraldarius died._ ”

“Felix?” Sylvain sounds concerned and he reaches a hand across to touch Felix’s wrist. But Felix snaps his hand away and stands suddenly, his chair scraping across the floor obnoxiously, making several people glare and shush him.

Felix ignores them all as he clumsily flees the inn.

Meanwhile, the bard keeps singing, completely unaware of what she’s doing to him.

“ _The lord of the land,_

_So gracious and kind,_

_His wife and his sons too._

_Nothing could save them,_

_Nothing could stop it,_

_The night Fraldarius died._ ”

Felix’s heart is thudding his chest, and his hand claws over it, like it might help. He’s tired and grieving and… furious. Furious that someone made a song about this. Does that bard with the sweet face know?

He stumbles outside, needing quiet and fresh air, shoving past a few people, seeking solitude and heading for the woods nearby, trying to get his bearings.

It’s not long before he’s some distance away from the inn. But as soon as he steps into the woods, an arrow whizzes past his head, embedding itself into a nearby tree.

Felix may be shaken by what had happened in the inn, but he still reacts quickly, ducking and taking cover, sliding his steel sword out of its sheath and cursing himself. That arrow had been a warning. He’d been distracted enough that if the person who had shot it wanted to kill him, they could have.

The woods are silent. Only the rustling of leaves and the distant sound of the inn are to be heard.

“What do you want?” He calls out, easing himself into a crouch, ready to move quickly.

“You, Witcher, and your bard,” an unfamiliar voice replies.

Felix is snide. “And you? Do you have your own bard?”

“Ah. I do apologise if she’s upset you.” To Felix’s bafflement, the voice sounds genuinely regretful. “But we needed to flush you out.”

Gritting his teeth, Felix curbs his temper. “And are you to deliver me to the Boar King?”

A pause. “I’m assuming you mean King Dimitri. But no, the Archbishop wishes to bring her Witchers home. You’re needed, Felix.”

He scowls at that. “Then she should have sent another Witcher.”

The voice is silent for a moment. Felix wonders if the other person has been wondering that themselves. Eventually, the voice says, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Felix is confident in that. This man had the advantage of surprise. He should have put an arrow in Felix’s leg. Now, he has nothing, and is an archer in darkness who’s given away his location by speaking.

Silently, Felix moves, skirting around some bushes and taking cover behind a tree.

“You’re very confident,” the archer calls out. His voice is closer, and Felix edges forward again. In the dark, he sees a glint of silver.

He rushes the archer, who fires an arrow that – to his credit – comes far closer than Felix expects. But it’s not enough, and Felix has disarmed his attacker and has a blade at his throat in the next moment.

The man has silver hair and wide eyes as he stares up at Felix. “I see why you’re confident now.”

Felix keeps his eyes on the archer as he listens for any other sounds, wondering if the bard will appear. But the woods remain silent.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ashe. We were sent to bring you to Fhirdiad.” He grimaces. “I don’t think we thought this plan out.”

“No,” Felix replies evenly, “you didn’t.” He glances around. “Just the two of you?”

A pause. “Yes.”

Felix glares, not believing him. He doesn’t like this. “And were you going to tie me to a horse and drag me back to Fhirdiad?”

Ashe grimaces. “Not exactly. We were rather hoping you’d come willingly.”

“Why,” he grits out, “would I do that?”

“Well…” Ashe looks uncertain for a moment. “We thought you might want to know what happened to your family.”

Felix’s hand shakes slightly, making Ashe struggle in his hold, the blade pressing too close. “I know who it was,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “The target was Dimitri. My family were just in the way.”

“Yes,” Ashe gasps, clearly trying to keep calm. “But it was the Empire who did it, not an anti-royal Faerghus faction.”

Felix presses the blade closer, just enough for a small amount of blood to appear, pooling around the edge of his sword. “Convenient,” he snaps. “Isn’t it the Empire you want me to fight for you?”

“With us!” Ashe’s expression is genuine, but Felix doesn’t know if that stems from the desperation of having a sword at his throat.

Somewhere nearby, he feels the pressure of magic, and instinctively jumps backwards, releasing Ashe, who immediately presses a hand to his throat, checking the damage.

The bard from the inn steps out, hands raised. Her previous attack had clearly been a warning, and Felix watches her warily, wondering where Sylvain is.

“Are you alright, Ashe?” The bard – no, the mage – asks in her sweet voice.

“I’m fine, Annette.” Ashe stands. There’s a mild shake in his voice. “He wouldn’t have killed me.”

Felix raises his eyebrows. “Now who’s confident?”

“Ashe thinks the best of everyone,” the mage replies, before turning to Felix. He can feel her magic, and prepares to draw on his own. “But you!”

“Me?”

“You’re mean!”

“Excuse me? He shot an arrow at me.”

Annette glances at Ashe, who shrugs as he picks up his bow. Felix takes a step back, watching them both carefully.

“I’m not going with you,” he says evenly, raising his sword.

Annette sighs. “We really wish you would. We aren’t the bad guys here.”

Felix isn’t sure about that. “Every side can be bad.” Her mouth downturns at that but he doesn’t give her a chance to reply, his anger flaring again. “And what was that song you were singing in there?”

Her mouth turns down further. “I’m really sorry. It’s a very beautiful song – but so sad! I didn’t feel right about singing it, knowing you were there.” She glances at Ashe again.

The archer shrugs. “I think we miscalculated with that one, Annie.”

Her shoulders slump. “Yeah…” 

Their seemingly real remorse stumps Felix, who mutters, “It’s… fine.” Raising his voice, he asks, “Where’s Sylvain?”

Again, the two exchange a glance. “I’m not… sure?” Annette says hesitantly.

He doesn’t like the way she says that – she sounds like she’s lying – and something seizes Felix. It’s fear. Fear that something has happened. That these two – and anyone with them – have somehow hurt Sylvain when Felix has only just gotten him back.

He takes another step back, keeping them both in his sights. But neither of them seem inclined to attack

“If you’ve hurt him–“ he points his sword at Annette, who pouts as she raises her hands, magic flickering ”–I will kill you.”

Her eyebrows raise in surprise, and for a split second Felix thinks she’s going to laugh. But he can’t dwell on it, because he’s taking another step back, and another, until he’s cleared the trees.

As he hurries back to the inn, all his senses are alert – for an arrow, for magic, for footsteps following him.

But there’s nothing.

***

He and Sylvain have taken to sharing a room every night, now. Easier to protect each other, if they have to, and as they stay awake in the darkness talking, Felix has been reminded of memories long forgotten, of how they have done this before – staying up late, just talking. 

He bursts into their shared room to find Sylvain pacing in front of the fire. He turns to Felix, relief clear on his face.

“Fe–oof–“ Sylvain is cut off by Felix marching towards him and almost tackling him in a hug. Sylvain stumbles back from the force of it before he steadies himself, and wraps his own arms around Felix.

“Aww, miss me?”

Felix ignores the stupid question, suddenly realising what he’s doing. Embarrassed, he tries to shove Sylvain away, face burning.

But Sylvain isn’t one to be deterred easily. “No, Felix, please let me hug you!” He keeps a tight grip and Felix, too relieved to see that Sylvain is okay, too distracted by how warm and solid he is against him, lets himself be hugged, hesitantly sliding his arms around Sylvain again.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what brought this on?”

Felix turns his face into Sylvain’s chest, muffling his words. “Nothing,” he lies. He can’t help but press himself closer, suddenly feeling greedy for more contact. His plan had been to find Sylvain and then to get the hell out of here, just in case those two people from Faerghus returned. But now… he hasn’t hugged anyone like this since… since he can’t remember. And Sylvain smells good.

 _Fuck_ , this feels good.

Sylvain runs a hand down Felix’s spine, making him shudder and press even closer. He thinks he feels Sylvain’s lips at the crown of his head.

“Felix,” he breathes out the name like a prayer. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Felix doesn’t answer. At least, not with words. Instead he pulls back slightly and tilts his head upwards, finding Sylvain’s face close to his own. Without letting himself think, he stretches up and presses his lips to Sylvain’s, his hands winding into messy hair.

Sylvain makes a noise at the back of his throat and slides a hand across Felix’s jaw, changing the angle slightly and parting Felix’s lips with his own. The touch of Sylvain’s tongue against his unleashes something desperate in him; something he absolutely has refused to admit to himself that he wants, and Felix manoeuvres them back to one of the beds, only detaching himself from Sylvain’s lips long enough to shove him down onto it. He wastes no time, clambering on and straddling Sylvain, taking in his bright eyes and flushed cheeks briefly before kissing him again, moaning when Sylvain grinds up into him.

“Felix.” Sylvain pulls away from his lips gasping, but Felix isn’t deterred, and yanks at Sylvain’s shirt, loosening it so he can press biting kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Underneath him, Sylvain shudders and moans out his name again, his hands grasping at Felix’s hips and ass and then back up to his hair like he can’t decide where to settle them. One of the hands in his hair pulls at the tie in his hair until it cascades down around them, and Felix groans at the unfamiliar but pleasant sensation of hands gently running through his hair. When Sylvain gently tugs his head upwards, Felix reluctantly detaches himself from his skin, raising his head to meet Sylvain’s heavy lidded gaze.

“Felix.” There’s still need in Sylvain’s voice, enough for Felix to unconsciously press against him, making Sylvain stifle a groan in the back of his throat. “Felix. Stop.”

He narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Sylvain runs a hand through Felix’s hair again, and it takes everything in him not to lean into the touch. “It’s just…” He lets out a long breath, and looks away. “Not the best time?”

Felix stills from his seat on top of his Sylvain, frustration growing. “All those songs you kept singing about me – did you not mean them?”

“I did!” Sylvain smooths both hands down his back. “I do. I just– it’s just obvious something has happened.”

Felix sits up, intending to climb off him, but Sylvain grabs his hand, smoothing a thumb over his wrist. He stares at Felix with pleading eyes. “Please, tell me.”

Taking a deep breath, Felix settles again. Sylvain is probably right. This isn’t the best time. They need to get out of here. He glances at the door briefly, like he’s expecting someone to burst in. “The bard was a…” He almost says spy – and he knows bards have commonly been used like that in the past, but spy didn’t seem to fit the woman from earlier, or even the archer. “She was a mage,” he finishes. “And there was an archer, outside. They wanted me, and you, I guess, to go back to Faerghus. Fight for them in the war.”

Sylvain’s throat bobs as he swallows. “You’re not hurt?” he asks, touching Felix like he’s trying to feel the answer for himself.

Felix shakes his head, trying to focus and not melt into the touch. “They were… odd. But they didn’t hurt me. The bard – she didn’t do anything to you?”

Sylvain lowers his eyes and shakes his head. “We should get to Derdriu quickly, huh?” His voice is quiet.

Felix stares at him. “What’s wrong?”

It takes a moment for Sylvain to raise his eyes. He smiles, but it’s forced. “Nothing. So do you want to get moving now?”

Knocking Sylvain’s hands off him, Felix finally stands, the heady desire and pleasure from only a few moments ago completely washed away by the sure knowledge that Sylvain is lying to him. “Yes,” he says, voice sounding strange to his own ears. “We shouldn’t stay here any longer.”

***

They make good time, riding through the night, and stopping in the late morning to eat and let the horses rest. Then, at a slower pace, they join the main road again, aiming to reach Derdriu by nightfall.

Felix isn’t sure what’s going to happen then. But if they can disappear into the city maybe then he can get some answers out of Sylvain.

Their kiss is never far from his thoughts, and judging from the way Sylvain keeps looking at him, the feeling is mutual.

But this isn’t the time to talk about it. The road is extremely busy – and a lot of the traffic is outbound from the city. 

“There are a lot of people leaving,” Sylvain murmurs.

“Hmm,” is Felix’s only response, busy watching the people around them.

The guard presence is heavy. And they’re clearly on edge. Both he and Sylvain get more than one suspicious look as they pass.

Felix spots a merchant up ahead, selling food from his caravan. There’s a fire burning merrily by the side of the road, and a small group of people eating around it. As he glances briefly at Sylvain, he’s reminded of just how charming he can be when he wants to.

Nodding towards the caravan, he says to Sylvain, “Do you think you can find out what’s going on?”

The smile he receives in return is a promise.

***

Felix is waiting patiently while their horses graze some distance away when Sylvain returns, handing Felix a bowl of hot stew and sinking into the grass beside him. He laughs at the way Felix’s eyes light up.

“So it’s true, then? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”

“Shut up,” Felix mumbles through a mouthful of stew, but Sylvain only laughs again, leaning into him. The easy affection makes Felix feel warm, so he focuses on his food, doing his best not to look at Sylvain, who stays close as he starts talking.

“There’s been a lot of attacks in Derdriu. Sounds like more demonic beasts. The Duke and the city guard are struggling to put them all down, and no one can figure out where they’re coming from. Some people are blaming the Ashen Demon, either saying it’s her doing this, or that it’s some kind of retaliation for Claude keeping her so close. Some people are blaming the Kingdom, some others blaming the Empire. Some blame Claude himself–“

“So no one actually knows anything, is what you’re saying.”

“Mmhmm. That’s why so many people are fleeing, even though it’s probably not going to be much better anywhere else.” Sylvain produces a spoon and helps himself to Felix’s stew. Felix, distracted, allows him.

“Someone is causing chaos. And weakening Claude’s position.”

“Yup,” Sylvain replies through a mouthful. “We don’t have to keep going, you know.”

“What?” Felix turns his head, flustered to find Sylvain’s face close.

“Derdriu. We don’t have to go.”

“I need to find work, Sylvain.”

“There’s work for a Witcher everywhere. But if you go to Derdriu, you’re going to get sucked into… all this.” Sylvain gestures vaguely in the direction of the city.

Felix shrugs him off and stands up, food forgotten. “You seem very sure about that. What are you not telling me, Sylvain?”

Sylvain’s smile is easy but doesn’t touch his eyes. “Felix–“

“You’ll regret it if you keep lying to me,” he warns quietly, and the smile falls from Sylvain’s face. “These demonic beasts, are they sent from Faerghus?”

“No,” Sylvain answers immediately. “I swear.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Felix is pretty sure he isn’t lying about this. But he still knows there’s something Sylvain isn’t telling him. He steps forward, shoving the bowl of stew at Sylvain. “I’m going to the city. I don’t care what you do.”

***

Felix might not have been so quick with his words if he’d thought Sylvain might actually disappear. But still, he’s more than a little relieved when Sylvain finally does catch up with him when he’s at the city gates.

Sylvain doesn’t say anything, and simply falls into pace beside Felix. But his face is pinched. Worried.

The guards at the gate stare at them both with open suspicion but neither of them are stopped. 

Night is beginning to fall by the time they’re inside the city proper, and they need to find somewhere to stay. Despite it not being that late, the streets are already beginning to empty, and there’s a tense atmosphere. Guards glare from every corner.

Felix can feel it. People are scared.

They stable their horses, and Felix swiftly makes his way through the streets, with Sylvain on his heels.

“You have a destination in mind?” Sylvain asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken in some time.

Just as he’s about to answer, Felix senses something behind them. Grabbing Sylvain’s arm, he pulls him into a side street.

“We’re being followed,” he murmurs quietly.

Sylvain frowns. “Think it’s those two from before?”

Felix searches his face for a moment, then shrugs lightly. “No idea. Follow me.”

He leads Sylvain away to the rougher part of Derdriu, where there are no guards, and even fewer people on the streets. If this is going to end in confrontation, he’d rather minimise the risk to others. Briefly he eyeballs the lance strapped to Sylvain’s back. The Lance of Ruin is covered for now, but it’ll be a glowing beacon in this darkness once Sylvain takes it out. How annoying.

Eventually, he comes to a stop in a wide, empty street, and turns around. Sylvain does the same.

What Felix is expecting is that mage and archer from before. Or maybe even just some people who don't like Witchers and have felt the need to tell him about it. He's encountered enough people like that before. 

What he isn’t expecting is two masked people to appear in front of them.

He exchanges a look with Sylvain, who appears baffled.

“Hey, uh, really not even attempting to blend in, are you?”

Felix resists the urge to roll his eyes as he pulls out a sword, noticing that Sylvain is readying himself with the Lance of Ruin.

“Gautier,” one of the masked individuals intones.

“Who?” Sylvain asks, even as the Lance of Ruin lights up in his hands.

The strangers raise their hands, and Felix can immediately feel their magic. He calls out a warning to Sylvain and pulls him back as dark magic begins to twist through the air, but the spell isn’t aimed at them. Instead, it focuses in the space between them and the mages, and forms into the hulking shape of a demonic beast.

A spike of betrayal lances through Felix – these mages seem to know Sylvain, but Sylvain had told him Ferghus had nothing to do with these demonic beasts.

But it’s a thought he’ll have to put aside for now, because, with a roar, the beast charges at them, forcing them to spring apart.

However, the last week has shown that he and Sylvain work well together, and they seemlessly move to flank the beast.

The two dark mages are still there, though, and Felix can only dodge a stamp from the beast as he sees them raise their hands again.

“Sylvain,” he hisses, “we need to take out the mages.”

“Right,” he calls back.

But the beast won’t let them by. It’s quicker and more powerful than any they’ve fought in the last few days. And just beyond it, another one appears.

“Shit.” Sylvain’s eloquent summation of the situation is echoed by Felix. They can’t run away and leave these beasts to cause havoc in the city.

“We need to–“

An arrow whizzing through the air cuts him off.

It hits one of the mages right through the eye socket of their mask, killing them instantly.

Felix doesn’t have time to look behind him and see who it is, because the beast is on him again, and he quickly spins out of the way before striking at the side of the beast, causing it to let out a bone rattling roar.

But he doesn’t miss the way Sylvain glances around, and calls out hopefully, “Ashe?”

The feeling of betrayal flares up again.

Felix had never told Sylvain the name of the archer he’d encountered in the woods.

Savagely, he slashes at the demonic beast again, before being forced back when the second one charges forward.

He feels magic building up behind him, and makes a dash for Sylvain, pulling him out of the line of fire. A devastating blast of magic rends through the air and strikes the already injured demonic beast, killing it.

“Holy shit.” Sylvain stares, wide-eyed at the corpse, while Felix eyes the remaining demonic beast and the mage who had summoned it. From the other side of the street, he hears an impatient sigh, and flicks his eyes in that direction to see two people approaching.

One of them is a man wielding a bow, dressed in green. Felix doesn’t know who he is, but the woman at his side is familiar.

“Lysithea,” he calls out, and she acknowledges him with an impatient tilt of her head, but her hands are already raising to cast again.

“You know her?” Sylvain asks, his mouth close to Felix’s ear, making him shiver.

He pulls away. “She’s the most powerful sorceress I’ve ever met.”

Sylvain looks impressed. “Glad she’s on our side, then.”

Felix shares the sentiment. With Lysithea and the archer, the four of them make quick work of the remaining demonic beast and the dark mage.

When the battle is over, Lysithea flicks some hair over her shoulder and glares at Felix. He stares back, wondering what her problem is this time.

She’s always been cantankerous, and he’s self aware to know that that’s rich, coming from him.

The archer raises a hand in greeting. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Felix. My name is Ignatz.”

Felix nods in acknowledgement. “Have there been many of these?”

Ignatz sighs. “Too many.”

“Byleth’s been run ragged dealing with these, so we’ve been helping out,” Lyisthea states, crossing her arms. “What do you know about them?”

“Not much,” Felix shrugs. “We killed a few of them travelling up from Goneril. This is the first time we’ve seen those mages, though.”

“Hmm.” Lysithea’s gaze travels to Sylvain. Felix sees him give her a lazy grin, one that she looks completely unimpressed by. “Sylvain Gautier, I presume?”

Sylvain bows. “In the flesh. How did you know?”

“You match the description Byleth and Claude gave us.”

Felix turns to him. “You never said you knew them.”

“Well.” Sylvain looks chagrined. “I don’t _know_ them, exactly…”

“He’s the worst spy ever, honestly.” Lysithea’s words make Felix’s blood run cold, confirming what he’s feared.

“Spy,” he repeats flatly, anger and hurt bubbling just under the surface.

Ignatz shifts. Felix can see he’s ready to attack if necessary. “We weren’t sure if you were working with him or not, Felix.”

“Felix, I can explain.” 

But Felix refuses to look at Sylvain, and doesn’t even let himself acknowledge the pleading tone of his voice.

Shaking his head, Felix takes a step away from Sylvain. “I don’t work with anyone.”

“If you say so.” Lysithea sounds unconvinced. “We’ve been told to take you both back to Claude. I’d really rather you didn’t make it difficult.” She gives them both a pointed look, like they’re misbehaving children.

“We’ll go.” Felix finally looks at Sylvain then, who’s looking at him like he’s silently begging him to understand something.

But Felix _doesn’t_ understand. He can’t understand how Sylvain can look at him like that when he’s the one who manipulated his way into Felix’s life, using a childhood friendship to get under his skin.

His hands fist at his side, wanting to lash out. To hurt Sylvain as much as he’s hurt him.

Instead, he turns away, not caring if Sylvain is following.

***

Their journey to the Riegan estate is brisk, with a number of Leicester soldiers falling in beside them. Sylvain, despite being named as a spy for another country, doesn’t seem inclined to run away or fight back.

He does try to speak to Felix a few times, but is met with only a stony silence.

The soldiers take him away once they reach the estate, while Felix is brought directly to Claude.

He takes a look at Sylvain’s retreating back and asks Ignatz, “They won’t harm him, will they?”

He shakes his head. “No. Claude doesn’t stand for torture.”

Despite everything, Felix huffs out a tiny laugh. “No, just poisons.”

“Ah, you have met Claude, then.” Ignatz pauses and nods towards the soldiers. “They’ll take you to him. I hope to see you again, Felix.”

***

The lavish room Felix is ushered into is empty. Two guards remain at the door while he gingerly sits in one of the fine, high backed chairs, grimacing at the dirt and dried monster blood on his clothes that’s now shedding onto it and the floor.

“Any chance of a bath before I see the Duke?” he calls back to the guards.

“You’ve been told to wait, Witcher,” one of them answers coldly.

Felix rolls his eyes and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes.

Claude will probably make him wait a while. Whether it’s because he’s actually busy or just being an ass, Felix isn’t sure. But it gives him time to think.

Sylvain is a spy for Faerghus.

Not a very good one, sure. Lysithea had probably been right about that.

But Felix is left trying to puzzle out what had been real with Sylvain and what hadn’t been.

He’d seemed genuine when asking Felix to run away to Almyra with him. And he had kissed him like it was real.

Felix lets out a long breath. He’s not sure if that’s just wishful thinking on his part.

It’s clear Sylvain has lied – or omitted truths – plenty in the time they’ve spent together.

He stews in his thoughts, pulling on everything he knows to keep calm. But sitting idle like this, being made to wait for someone else, gnaws at his patience.

No doubt that’s what Claude wants.

By the time Claude glides into the room and dismisses the guards, Felix is ready to stab him. But he settles for glaring as Claude rounds the room and takes a seat behind the large desk. He’s not alone. Felix turns his head slightly to see Lysithea, arms folded and a cross look on her face. 

“Good to see you again, Felix.” Claude leans forward and shoots him a charming smile.

Felix narrows his eyes at Claude, taking him in. That smile doesn’t fool him. Claude looks tired. Worried.

“Wish I could say the same,” he responds sharply. “Where’s Sylvain?”

Claude waves a hand. “He’s fine. Just had to ask him a few questions. But we haven’t hurt him, in case you’re worried about that?” His eyes glint in interest.

“I wasn’t worried.”

For a long moment Claude stares at him. “We won’t get far if you lie to me, Felix.” His voice has cooled slightly.

At the side of the room, Lysithea shifts, and Felix briefly catches her eyes. He likes Lysithea, grouchy as she is. She has no patience for all this diplomatic bullshit, either.

“Would you care for a drink? Some refreshments? You like the Almyran pine tea too, don’t you?” Claude’s voice has warmed again, and just as Felix is about to decline, a servant bustles in rolling a tray filled with tea and refreshments. A brief silence falls as tea is poured and even Lysithea wanders closer to inspect the tiny cakes on the tray, selecting three for herself delicately.

Felix accepts the tea, watching Claude talk politely to the servant, betraying no hint of unease, like it’s normal to have tea and cake with a Witcher covered in monster blood.

Actually… perhaps for Claude this is normal. Felix wonders where Byleth is.

“So,” Claude finally begins once they’re alone again. Lysithea has taken a seat and is eating her cakes, but he and Claude just have tea. “I believe I owe you my thanks, Witcher.”

Felix’s eyebrows raise. “Oh?”

“You’ve been taking care of some issues in my territory I should be tending to myself.”

“The demonic beasts?”

Claude nods. “I’m not going to lie–“

Felix snorts at that. Claude will lie if it suits him. Everyone knows that.

Pausing, Claude raises one eyebrow like he knows what Felix is thinking. When it’s clear Felix isn’t going to say anything more, he continues. “ _As I was saying_ , I’m not going to lie – I was half tempted to put you in a cell with that bard. But we go way back Felix, and Byleth wouldn’t like it. And you’ve been protecting my people when I wasn’t able.” He and Lysithea exchange a look, while Felix takes a sip of tea. It’s annoyingly good. Refreshing, with that subtle bite of bitterness he likes.

“It’s frustrating,” Claude goes on. “To juggle the Roundtable at the best of times. This war makes it nearly impossible. You’ve never worked for Gloucester, so you’ve been lucky enough never to have met the man.”

“He’s a snake,” Lysithea interjects.

A flicker of a smile crosses Claude’s face. “Her words, not mine. But he controls the Bridge of Myrddin down in his own territory. And the Emperor has been promising him all sorts of things in return for opening it.”

Felix understands. “Her army could march into Leicester, unopposed.”

“You get it. So far, Faerghus has put up enough of a fight to keep her focused there – thanks to the support from the Church. But that doesn’t mean that she isn’t thinking about what to do about little ol’ Leicester. She won’t want another drawn out war. And she knows how we work here. She could never have negotiated with Dimitri, but the Alliance is different.”

The mere mention of Dimitri’s name makes Felix scowl, something which Claude doesn’t miss. “Why are you telling me this?” Felix asks, impatient.

The door to the room opens before Claude can reply, and Felix stands, immediately on guard.

A pink haired woman splattered with blood and holding a ridiculously huge axe comes sauntering in.

“Honey, I’m home,” she calls out cheerfully, before wrinkling her nose at Felix as she sets down her axe.

“Felix.” Claude also stands. “This is Hilda Goneril – I believe you know her brother. Hilda, this is the Witcher you’ve heard so much about.”

“Right.” Hilda tilts her head at him. “I always imagined you’d be taller.”

Felix flushes. ”What–“

“Hilda.” A familiar disapproving voice sounds from the door, and Felix sees Byleth saunter in. Like Hilda, she’s also a mess, obviously just come from their own battle. Her own swords are sheathed by her side. “Felix,” Byleth says as she walks into the room. “Good to see you again.”

“You, too.” Felix watches as she greets Lysithea and then Claude, a small smile on her face.

“My love.” Claude has a stupid smile on his face too, and he and Byleth quickly embrace.

“I hope your sword is still sharp, Fraldarius,” Byleth says after she draws away from Claude to pour herself some tea.

He scoffs. “I’m not the one going soft over a Duke.”

She flashes a piercing look at him. “No, from what I hear, it’s over a bard.”

“Alright!” Claude interrupts, though he looks amused. “I know you two have an extremely weird friendship and I’m very supportive of that–“ Both Felix and Byleth cast him a droll look. “But we have more important things to focus on right now.”

“That’s right,” says Hilda. “We just killed four of those ugly monsters and one of the mages.”

Claude sighs, and opens a drawer. He pulls out a rolled up piece of parchment and spreads it across the table. It’s a map of Derdriu. “Where?”

“North.” Byleth answers and points at a spot on the map. “Here.”

Claude marks a place on it and then glances at Felix. “And two monsters and two mages for you.” He makes another mark on the map, obviously already knowing where that fight had taken place.

Felix can see from his seat that the map is littered with marks.

“Before you both arrived, I was just telling Felix that Edelgard isn’t waging a war on us like the one she’s waging on Faerghus.”

Byleth nods and meets Felix’s gaze. “She’s causing chaos here in a different way.”

“So those mages – all those monsters – are from the Empire.”

“In a way.”

Lysithea speaks up. “The Empire is working with a group of people who…” She pauses. “I don’t know where they’re from. But it’s not Fódlan. It took us a while to confirm it, but I recognise those mages.”

“Lysithea had some dealings with them when she was younger.” Claude’s voice has gone soft and dangerous, and Felix doesn’t need to hear anymore. Whatever had happened to Lysithea hadn’t been good.

She sets her jaw, obviously not wanting to discuss it. “Yes. They need to be stopped.”

“The problem was,” Claude continues, “that for a while, we didn’t know if it was the Kingdom or the Empire causing the monsters. I had made some careful attempts to reach out to Dimitri and Rhea. In return, we got a sudden influx of demonic beasts. And a spy.”

 _Ah_. Felix had been wondering when he’d get mentioned. “Sylvain.”

“Right. Hilda?” Claude turns to her. “Can you get them to bring him up?”

Hilda pouts, but does as he asks, leaving the room quickly.

Byleth is watching Felix with a thoughtful expression. “Claude was worried in case you were working with Sylvain.”

“By, I wasn’t worried.” Claude sounds a little embarrassed, and Felix can’t help but smirk.

She turns to him. “Yes, you were.” She reaches out, and takes one of his hands in hers. “I know it’s hard to trust, but you can trust Felix.”

Felix’s smirk fades. The vote of confidence from Byleth perhaps shouldn’t be unexpected. They’d both been through a lot together. But she’s been with Claude for a while now.

And she’s right. It’s hard to trust.

It’s not long before Hilda returns, with Sylvain just behind her. Felix tries to hide his concern as he looks him over, but Claude has kept his word. Sylvain is unharmed, although two guards hold each of his arms and he has shackles around his ankles.

Sylvain ignores everyone in the room, only having eyes for Felix.

“I’m sorry, Felix,” he says, immediately. “I never wanted to lie to you, but it was the only way they’d let me come here.”

“They?” Felix asks. “The boar?”

Sylvain nods. “And Rhea. Ingrid, too, but she just wanted me to bring you home.”

“And it’s not just Felix they want, is it?” Claude asks mildly.

Sylvain shakes his head. It’s obvious he doesn’t need to be convinced to speak, but still Felix is wondering at how much he can be trusted. “The Archbishop wants all her Witchers back. I mean, I can’t blame her. The only reason Faerghus still stands at all is because the Church is with them. Their army is much smaller than the Empire’s, but the Empire doesn’t have Witchers. And you two–“ he nods at Felix and Byleth ”– are two of the best.”

“And their plan was to send you?” The incredulity in Hilda’s voice is pointed.

“Ah.” Sylvain looks a little embarrassed. “I wanted to see Felix. I managed to convince Dimitri to send me. The Archbishop thought that if I convinced Felix to come back, he’d convince Byleth. Because everyone knows you two left Garreg Mach together.”

“So why did you come to Derdriu?” Byleth asks.

“I thought you and Felix would be in the same place. And, no offence, but everyone knows you and the Duke are shacking up. Figured Derdriu was the best place to start. And posing as a bard made sense. I can sing. And everyone loves bards.”

“Do they really?” Lysithea is scornful.

“Sure.” Sylvain turns a smile on her. “Would you like to hear a song? I don’t need my lute to enchant you.”

She looks less than impressed. “Ugh.”

“Wait,” says Felix. “So you were here, before you found me?”

“Oh, he was here, alright,” Claude mutters.

Felix meets Sylvain’s sheepish gaze. “What did you do?”

“He tried to seduce me,” Byleth says, sounding mildly offended. Hilda laughs.

“He tried to seduce her in front of me,” Claude amends. His voice holds a tone similar to Byleth’s, but Felix isn’t fooled by it. Claude’s smile is as sharp as the teeth of a selkiemore.

Sylvain shrugs, managing to look completely unbothered despite the fact that he’s still got shackles around his ankles. “To be fair, I was trying to seduce both of you.”

He doesn’t even wilt under the combined glare of Byleth and Felix.

Claude, however, looks a little impressed. “Huh.”

“It made sense,” Sylvain goes on. “It was clear she wasn’t going to leave you. So I knew I had to convince both of you, and not just her. And what better way to do it than in bed? You’re both easy on the eye, it would have been no hardship.”

Felix looks away, trying to tamper down the ugly curl of jealousy rising up in him. Is that why Sylvain had sung all those songs to him? To seduce him and what– be so good in bed he’d convince Felix to return to Faerghus and fight for the Church again?

“You really are the worst spy,” he spits out, suddenly furious.

“Yeah, probably,” Sylvain agrees. “But, Felix?” And he can’t help but turn his head and meet Sylvain’s pleading gaze. “It wasn’t like that with you, I swear.”

”I–“ Felix can feel his face going red, and he knows everyone in the room is looking at him. He hates it. “Shut up,” he hisses.

Thankfully, Claude interrupts. “Look, you two can work out your issues later. Sylvain, we captured the two people you were working with. Ashe and Annette?”

Sylvain’s face falls. “You haven’t hurt them, have you?”

Claude lets him suffer for a moment before answering. “No. They’re being kept under guard, but they’re fine. But the fact remains that I have two nobles of the Kingdom as prisoners, and one commoner who appears to be in favour with the king. You, Sylvain, are Margrave Gautier. Annette is heir to the Baron of Dominic.” He pauses. “And, technically, Felix is Duke Fraldarius.”

Felix automatically shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“Technically,” Sylvain says, “You kinda are. Your lands fell to my family, at first supposedly to hold while you were in your minority. When you were taken in to be a Witcher, it was just accepted that we’d hold them in perpetuity. My father was, unsurprisingly, pleased about the situation. But you’ve never been formally stripped of the title.”

“I don’t want it.” The idea of it sends a flicker of panic through Felix. He’s not a Duke. He doesn’t know the first thing about being a Duke. He doesn’t _want_ to be a Duke.

That had been Glenn’s path, never his.

Sylvain looks sympathetic. “Sorry, Felix.”

Felix shakes his head again, trying to sort through his thoughts. “Ashe,” he says suddenly, and Sylvain looks wary again. “He said my family was killed by the Empire, not an anti-royal faction from Faerghus.”

Sylvain’s eyes turn sad. “Yeah. I, uh, there’s always been rumours. And the Archbishop told us that. Honestly, I don’t know whether to believe her or not. She hates the Empire. And I didn’t know if I should tell you.” He tries to take a step closer to Felix, but the two guards keep him still. “I’m sorry. Please, Felix, you have to believe me.”

He stands up, anger flaring again. “Why should I?” he yells. “You’ve done nothing but lie since the moment I saw you again.”

Sylvain opens his mouth, but whatever he sees on Felix’s face makes him close it again, looking defeated. 

“Wow,” Hilda drawls, watching like this is some kind of stage show.

Felix runs a hand down his face, sick of this. He turns to Claude. “I’m not a Duke. Don’t call me that. Don’t even think about using me like that.” Claude only raises an eyebrow as Felix talks. “I’m leaving,” Felix finishes, ready to bolt.

“Wait, Felix, just another minute.” Claude looks at him imploringly.

Byleth joins in. “Please, Felix.”

It’s only because it’s Byleth and she’s the only person he trusts in this entire damn country, does Felix sit back down. “Fine. Make it quick.”

“I suppose I’ll have to make my prepared speech before I’m ready,” Claude muses before becoming more serious. He leans forward, resting his hands on the table, briefly looking at the map of Derdriu before he raises his head. “Look – you see this map? This is just Derdriu. We were trying to figure out if there's a pattern to the attacks, perhaps try to find their base. But it’s hopeless. It feels like they’re everywhere. And it’s not just in Derdriu. It’s spreading to all Alliance territories belonging to nobles who refuse to deal with the Empire.” He pauses, voice turning bleak. “We don’t have enough soldiers, especially ones that are capable of dealing with monsters like this. Our soldiers are trained to fight other men, after all. Meanwhile, Gloucester negotiates with the Empire and tries to poison the rest of the Roundtable against me. I have few allies. And every day more die.”

There’s a silence in the room as they all contemplate what Claude is telling them – though it’s only really news to Felix and Sylvain.

Finally, Claude speaks again, looking Felix in the eye. “The only thing keeping Derdriu from falling is Byleth. While those with crests – like Lysithea and Hilda – help, there’s a reason why we need Witchers.”

“You’re asking me to help you clear Derdriu of these monsters?” Felix asks.

Claude nods. “With you and Byleth handling the monsters, it allows the others to go after the mages. Flush them out, and kill them. We’ve tried to bring some of them in alive for questioning, but it never goes well. And there has to be an end to them.”

“And then what?” Sylvain asks that, and Felix glances at him to see that his gaze on Claude is sharp. “You going to keep me here as a prisoner of war?”

“Nothing of the sort. I’d welcome your help. In fact, I’d rather like to sit down with you and Annette and Ashe and hammer out some kind of agreement between Leicester and Faerghus.”

“… Oh?” Sylvain still sounds suspicious.

“An alliance, you might say.” Claude flashes a smile. “We have a common enemy. We can let previous any old aggrievement slide in the face of that.”

“I’m not sure I’m in the position to do that.” But Felix can see that Sylvain is thinking about it. In truth, it makes sense, although he can’t help but wonder what it might mean for him, personally.

“I’m sure you’d be able to convince them to put you in that position. You convinced them to let you come here, after all.”

Sylvain glances to the side, brows furrowing. “I have my own terms.”

“Of course,” Claude shrugs. “As do I. I’d like to make it clear from the start, for example, that any Witchers currently in Leicester fall under my dominion. That is to say – they are not now, nor will they ever be considered property of the Church again. Or whatever archaic notion it is they have about their Witchers.”

It sounds magnanimous on the surface, but… Felix gives Claude a pointed look. “Are we to belong to you?”

“Not at all. Look, Felix, I’m doing this for Byleth. You just happen to be an extra beneficiary.” Beside him, Byleth smiles, and Felix knows Claude means it. “I am going to ask you to fight, though.”

That’s to be expected, really. And if the Empire is using monsters to fight a war…

The Empire that possibly killed his family.

“Fine,” Felix snaps. “I’ll fight for you, so long as you keep your word.”

“Ah, Felix, you know my word is golden.”

“Is it?”

Byleth stands, giving Felix a look that tells him to _shut the hell up_. “Come on, there’s a room for you. I’ll show you where it is.”

Felix gives a jerky nod in reply, and turns to leave, refusing to look at Sylvain.

“Felix.” Sylvain once more attempts to get his attention before he leaves, but it’s in vain.

Byleth follows Felix, shutting the door behind him.

“This way,” she says, moving quickly down the halls, twisting and turning through the maze that makes up the Riegan residence, until they come upon another room some distance from where they started. Two guards stand outside. She winces. “Sorry. You’re free to come and go. But Claude insists.”

“It’s fine,” he mutters. And it is, really. He gets it. He doesn’t quite trust Claude and the feeling is mutual. Even as much as Claude clearly trusts Byleth, he’s taking no risks.

Byleth follows him into the room, which is spacious and comfortable and already has a bath filled with water near the fire. Felix is pleased. It looks like the bath has cooled down a bit, but he can reheat it with magic.

“So,” says Byleth. “What’s with you and the bard?”

He barks out a humourless laugh, and begins stripping off his weapons and outer layers of clothes. “Straight to it, I see. There’s nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“There’s nothing. Drop it.”

“He did not stop looking at you the entire time we were in there. It reminded me of the way Claude looks at me.”

Felix glares at her, sour. There’s no way Sylvain looks at him in the sappy, stupid way Claude looks at Byleth. “Go away.”

“I’m just saying.” She shrugs.

“I’m going to take a bath,” Felix says, gesturing at the tub. “Will you leave?”

“Fine.” She turns towards the door. “I’ll come find you in the morning. And Felix – it really is good to see you again.” She gives him one of her rare smiles.

He sighs. “You too, Byleth,” he says sincerely. “Goodnight.”

When she leaves Felix locks the door after her and continues stripping down before reheating the water until it’s bordering on too hot. Then he sinks into it with a groan, resting his head against the edge of the tub as he tries to make sense of everything.

Sylvain remains forefront on his mind, a whole mess of emotions boiling up in him.

He thinks of Byleth’s words and groans again.

Damn her.

Damn Sylvain.

***

Claude puts Felix to work immediately, but he doesn’t mind. It takes his mind off Sylvain, and everything else. He works with Byleth, alongside Lysithea, Ignatz, and Hilda, while Claude laments that he can’t join them. Systemically, they work their way through Derdriu, killing monsters and flushing out enemy mages.

The city begins to calm again – as Claude had said, there is an end to the mages. There doesn’t seem to be a huge amount of them, but there’s been enough of them crawling around the city to cause all this chaos.

So Felix spends his days fighting monsters, and then returns to the Riegan estate and eats well and has a bath and then is so exhausted he sleeps. He doesn’t have to think about what comes next.

And he doesn’t have to think about Sylvain, who he knows is also still at the estate. Byleth tells him several times that Syvlain has asked to speak to him. Each time he tells her he’s not interested, and does his best not to show how hurt he is.

***

Felix can admit it’s nice to have a constant place to return to. Claude has made sure his guests are comfortable. Even the guards at his door eventually disappear.

But Felix has lived by his wits for too long, and he senses someone in his room just as his hand touches the handle. It could be a servant, of course. It could even just be Byleth. But still, he’s on guard, hand on sword as he quietly lets the door swing open.

It’s Sylvain, sitting on the edge of the bed in the dim room, fiddling with the lute in his hands. He looks nervous.

 _Good_ , Felix thinks. He should be.

“What are you doing here?” He’s brusque, stepping into the room but leaving the door open, intending to shoo Sylvain out immediately.

“Felix.” Sylvain is looking at him with hangdog eyes. “Can we please talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Leave.”

“There is and you know it.” Sylvain stands. “I wrote you a song. As an apology.”

Felix stares, wondering if he’s for real with this. “I don’t want to hear a song, Sylvain. I want–“ He cuts himself off.

Sylvain takes a step closer. “What, Felix?” He hates how soft Sylvain’s voice is. Soft and genuine, like he’s not a liar. “What do you want?”

“I want you to leave.”

That makes Sylvain’s shoulders slump, his eyes drift to the ground. Defeat is written all over him, and for some reason that pisses Felix off even more. He slams the door shut, making Sylvain look up in surprise.

“Sing your damn song, first.”

The spark of hope that flickers in Sylvain’s eyes shouldn’t get to him so much. But as Felix crosses his arms and leans against the door to watch, he realises that he actually doesn’t want Sylvain to leave.

He’s still pissed at him, though.

For the first time, Sylvain seems to be nervous as he prepares himself to sing. “You’re not going to sit?” he asks Felix, as he plucks at a string.

“No.”

“Really not going to make it easy for me, are you?”

“No,” Felix says again, with a quirk of his eyebrow, and he ignores the way Sylvain’s little laugh at that makes him want to smile.

“Alright, alright, tough crowd.” Sylvain takes a deep breath. His voice is softer than usual when he sings, the notes on the lute being plucked delicately.

“ _I knew it from the start,_

_That what I did was wrong,_

_I hope that you can forgive me,_

_By listening to this song._ ”

Felix rolls his eyes, pushing off the door to step closer. “That’s terrible.”

Sylvain stops playing, hitting a discordant note that hangs briefly in the air. “It’s a work in progress, Felix,” he says, somewhat reproachfully, but there’s a hint of mirth there. “Words are hard.”

Felix can at least agree with that. He nods to Sylvain to continue. The melody of the song changes slightly, and Sylvain’s voice lowers.

“ _So long ago I lost a friend and I missed him day and night._

_From cold windows I watched moons go past,_

_And I swore to see him again._

_I swore to see him again._ ”

This time, Felix doesn’t interrupt, transfixed by the sound of Sylvain’s voice and the way he’s looking at him. Sylvain stops singing for a moment, strumming slower on the lute. He frowns at the floor for a moment, before raising his eyes to meet Felix’s again.

“ _When war came, my faith in my king was lost,_

_But he gave me my greatest desire._

_I knew it was wrong, a deception, a fraud,_

_But Gautier’s have always been selfish liars._ ”

There’s not a hint of deception about Sylvain now, and his playing falters as Felix steps even closer, within touching distance. It’s with some surprise – and admittedly, a certain amount of pleasure – that Felix realises Sylvain is as flustered by him as he is by Sylvain.

“Sylvain,” Felix says quietly, dragging his eyes up from the fingers plucking at the lute to his face.

The music comes to a complete stop. Sylvain’s eyes, warm and filled with undisguised hope, search Felix’s face. “Felix?” His voice is as soft as his expression.

There’s a part of Felix that feels that this is weakness, on both of their parts. That he, himself, is a fool to be here and humouring Sylvain at all. But it’s not just the kiss that Felix is having a hard time forgetting. It’s how Sylvain made him feel when he smiled at him, or when he leaned in with warm eyes and...

That hadn’t been a lie, had it?

“If I ask you questions, will you answer truthfully?”

Sylvain nods rapidly. “Of course. I, uh, had a whole verse about that–“

“Enough singing.” Felix pauses. “For now. Sit.”

Sylvain lowers himself to sit on the side of the bed again, while Felix retreats, needing some distance. 

“Why did you come here?”

Sylvain doesn’t look away. He carefully places the lute beside him and leans forward, watching Felix with an earnest expression. “What I told Claude was true. The Archbishop wanted Byleth back. All her Witchers, really, but mostly Byleth. Still, your name came up. And while Dimitri is–“ Sylvain stops for a moment, obviously searching for the right word.

“A beast?” Felix interjects.

With a frown, Sylvain shakes his head. “Felix, he’s not… he’s not the same as when we were children. I’ve had my doubts. I wasn’t lying about that either. But he’s still Dimitri, somewhere underneath it all.”

Snidely, Felix responds, “Forgive me if I don’t agree with you.” He remembers the way Dimitri had revelled in the bloodshed the last time he’d seen him; how bloodthirsty and full of rage he’d been. Difficult to reconcile that to the sweet tempered boy he’d once known.

Sylvain sighs. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you over Dimitri. You don’t know everything he’s been through.”

“I don’t care.”

“I think you do.” Raising his eyebrows, Sylvain leans back, resting his elbows on the bed, looking like this is anything but a serious conversation.

Scoffing, Felix looks away. “Whatever. So you convinced him to let you come to Leicester?”

Sylvain accepts the side-stepping of the Dimitri issue. He nods. “He figured it made sense. You’d be more likely to respond favourably to someone you knew. And that gave me my in with Byleth. Ashe and Annette came with me. We came to Derdriu, and I sang my way into Claude’s court but, well, you heard how that went.”

Felix clenches his jaw. “How often do you seduce the people you’re singing to?”

The way his face falls gives Felix the answer. “It wasn’t like that, with you.”

“How can I believe you? Those Faerghus soldiers that attacked you–“

“Mercenaries,” Sylvain replies promptly. “We hired them and gave them Faerghus cloaks. I thought just having the Lance of Ruin would be enough to convince you who I was, just in case – no one else can use it, after all. But... then we thought we might need something else to get you to trust me.”

“That’s fucked up, Sylvain. They died for that.”

“Yeah, I know.” His gaze turns blank and empty. “Not the worst thing I’ve done in this war, though.”

Felix isn’t sure he’s in any place to judge Sylvain. He’s done just as bad, and likely worse.

Still, he barrels on, firing out the questions he’s wanted to ask for days now. “Those dark mages, they knew who you were immediately. I know you had the Lance, but…”

Sylvain blinks some of the emptiness out of his eyes. “That, I don’t know and, honestly, I found it a little unsettling. I asked Claude and he thinks the Empire is keeping a close eye on us all. They have a far better spy network, after all. Not even Claude can match it.”

That makes sense. Everyone has heard rumours of the Emperor’s right hand man, Hubert von Vestra. They say he has spies everywhere. Adrestia is the country known for its subtefuge, not Faerghus. Faerghus is too full of chilly honour and tradition for that.

Felix thinks about what Sylvain has told him, comparing it against what he’d said when they were travelling together “How can I trust you?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“You could give me a chance?” Is Sylvain’s quick reply. “That’s all I’m asking. To prove that you can trust me.”

A chance. A chance sounds like a terrible idea. The worst idea.

But…

Claude had taken a chance. Claude, who had hardly seemed to trust his own shadow before. Although that seems to have changed.

That archer, Ashe, has been sent back to Faerghus, Felix knows, with some preliminary terms hashed out between Sylvain and Claude to bring some kind of alliance between their two countries. Byleth has mentioned it more than once, usually in a not so subtle attempt to talk to him about Sylvain.

If Dimitri and the Archbishop have any sense left in them, they’ll accept the terms. Combine their armies and work together. If not… well, either way, Felix is involved now. And either way, he’s fighting against the Empire and perhaps he’ll be able to find out exactly who was behind the death of his family.

He takes a step forward, and Sylvain sits up, looking slightly nervous again.

Either way, Felix knows he doesn’t want to end things with Sylvain like this.

“You know, I meant it every time I asked you to come to Almyra with me.” Sylvain’s voice is hushed, but Felix can hear the raw emotion in it. “I realised right after I found you that I didn’t want to bring you back to Faerghus. I wanted to go somewhere else, away from all this, with you.”

Felix swallows. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Told you I was selfish.”

For a long moment Felix regards him. He’s truthfully not sure if Sylvain actually would have left Fódlan and its war behind. But… perhaps he would have, with Felix. 

He knows it wouldn’t have been the right decision.

Stepping forward again, Felix keeps moving until he’s standing in between Sylvain’s outstretched legs, watching as brown eyes raise up to meet his face.

Sylvain’s hands clench in the blanket under him. “Felix?”

Reaching a gloved hand out, Felix runs his fingers through Sylvain’s hair and tilts his head back even further. “Before,” he says, desperately trying to ignore the heat of embarrassment licking up his neck, “when we kissed. Why did you stop?”

“Oh!” The question is clearly one that Sylvain hasn’t been expecting. His fingers grip at the blanket even tighter, and with a flash of heat Felix wonders if he’s trying to resist the urge to grab him by the hips and haul him even closer. “It didn’t seem right to kiss you under false pretences.”

His hand in Sylvain’s hair tightens, and judging by the flush across his cheeks and the way his eyes are darkening as they look at his lips, Sylvain doesn’t mind. “But you would have done that, with Byleth or Claude?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Honestly? With anyone else. I wouldn’t have cared.”

“So why not me?” Felix grits out, leaning closer.

“It meant too much with you.”

Felix swallows, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. But still, that fear is there. “Sylvain, if you’re lying–“

“I’m not!” There’s a hint of desperation about Sylvain now, and he reaches out to take Felix’s free hand in one of his. “I promise you, Felix, I’m not.” Sylvain waits until Felix raises his eyes from their joined hands to his face again. When he speaks, there’s nothing but shining honesty in his voice and his face. “I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you.”

Felix’s heart stops. Possibly. That’s what it feels like, at least. The rest of him has stopped too, frozen in place, staring at Sylvain as those words sink in.

_I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you._

When he doesn’t immediately reply, Sylvain swallows nervously, throat bobbing. “I had a whole verse about that planned, too. Some of my best work, I’d say.”

“Really?” Felix hardly recognises his own voice, little more than a breathy whisper.

Sylvain’s eyes widen, and his grip on Felix’s hand tightens. “Yes. Do you want to hear it?”

“Not now.” Right now, Felix wants actions, not words, so he closes the small distance left between them. Sylvain’s eyes brighten as he arches up to meet Felix’s lips.

Felix sighs as Sylvain’s mouth opens under him, and he finally lets go of Sylvain’s hair so he can pull his gloves off, tossing them carelessly away before touching Sylvain again – one hand in his hair, the other angling his face upwards so he can kiss him deeper.

Sylvain takes him by surprise when he falls backwards, pulling Felix with him until they’re lying back on the bed, with Felix splayed across him. Rising on one arm, Felix regards the man underneath him.

What he sees is a flushed and pleased looking Sylvain, who is softly smiling up at him. Who, when he reaches out to brush some of Felix’s hair behind his ears, says, “I never expected this, when I came to find you. But I really do love you, Felix.”

Despite the burning blush he can feel across his cheeks, Felix swallows and forces himself to keep his gaze and reply, putting words to thoughts he’d hardly let himself think before. Sylvain has answered every question of his, and hasn’t asked anything in return. Being truthful is the least Felix can do. “I think… I might love you too.”

Sylvain laughs, delighted, skimming a hand across Felix’s cheek. “You think?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Felix asks, narrowing his eyes even as he leans into Sylvain’s touch.

The glare doesn’t phase Sylvain. “Trust me, I’m more than happy to wait until that _I think_ turns into an _I know_.”

Felix shifts so that he’s straddling Sylvain, eyes and hands trailing down his chest. “Aren’t you confident?”

“You bet.” Sylvain squirms under him for a moment as his hands slide around Felix’s hips to his ass. Just as Felix is leaning down to kiss him again, he says, “Hey, Felix, can you take off your swords? They’re digging into me.”

Felix can’t help but laugh into Sylvain’s mouth, but he does as he’s asked, not needing to look as he reaches down and undoes his sword belt. When it’s cast aside, Sylvain grabs his hips and grinds up against him. He groans as Felix begins kissing down his neck, pulling his shirt open like he had the last time they’d done this.

The noises Sylvain is making make Felix grin against his skin. “Sylvain,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “Will you sing for me?”

“ _Now_?”

Felix presses against him as he bites down gently at the junction of Sylvain’s shoulder and neck. The moan that flows out of Sylvain’s mouth might be the most beautiful sound Felix has ever heard him make.

He lifts his head. “Yes. Just like that.”

Sylvain’s laugh is breathless. “Didn’t think you had this in you, Felix.” He’s still smiling as he pulls Felix back down to kiss him, and Felix goes willingly.

***

When they next hear of a demonic beast in the city, Felix insists Sylvain fight with them. Sylvain is unwilling, and argues about even as they both make their way to the entrance of the Riegan estate where Byleth is waiting for them.

“You’ve been sitting around with Claude ever since we got to Derdriu. We’ll be fighting again soon. You need to be ready.”

“Felix, I’ve been fighting for years. A break of a few weeks isn’t going to hurt.”

His nonchalance grates. “It could be the difference between dying and not dying.”

Sylvain slides an arm around his waist. His affection is always freely given. In only the space of a few days Felix isn’t sure what he’ll do if he ever has to go without it.

Still, right now, he wriggles out of Sylvain’s touch even if he wants it. He increases his pace. They have work to do.

Sylvain pouts. “It’s a good thing I have you around to make sure that doesn’t happen then, isn’t it?”

Felix rounds on him, angry. “You're useless. You can’t rely on me, Sylvain. You can only rely on yourself.” He pauses as memories of his family rise up, unbidden.

Whatever he sees on Felix’s face makes Sylvain look concerned. He places a hand on his shoulder, one that Felix doesn’t shrug away. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I was being thoughtless.” He gives Felix a small smile. “I can take care of myself. How about I prove it to you out there today?”

Felix gives a jerky nod, and then, after some consideration. “I’m sorry, too. You’re not useless.”

“High praise,” Sylvain responds dryly, pressing a quick kiss to Felix’s forehead. “Thank you, Felix.”

Felix blushes and glances around, wondering if they’re alone, but doesn’t step away.

Standing some distance away is Byleth, obviously waiting for them. When he meets her gaze, she gives him an obnoxious thumbs up that he’s sure she learned from Sylvain because he’s never seen her do something like that before.

Felix doesn’t acknowledge it, instead stepping wordlessly past her out into the cool evening air of Derdriu, hoping it will soon cool down his face.

***

The number of demonic beasts appearing in the city lessen and lessen, and Claude is able to release soldiers to send them to help other parts of his territory. In the absence of things to fight, Felix trains with Byleth, and often Sylvain, who grumbles and then flirts his way through each of their sessions.

Felix doesn’t admit out loud that he likes it, but he thinks Sylvain knows.

Each night, Sylvain ends up in Felix’s bed, another marked change from his previously lonely life that Felix adapts to quickly.

But when Ashe returns with news and letters from Faerghus, Felix knows – one way or another – that everything will change.

***

“Dimitri and Rhea have accepted our terms,” Claude announces. His eyes flick up from the letter he’s holding to land on Felix, and then to Sylvain, who is at his side. “Obviously they want both Sylvain and Annette – along with Ashe – back in Faerghus immediately. Meanwhile, we’ll mobilise our troops and begin marching and follow you there. The Empire’s forces are still gathered on the Faerghus border.”

“You’re leaving Leicester vulnerable,” Felix states.

Something mischievous sparkles in Claude’s eye. “Not entirely. I’m leaving a capable retainer here, and Holst down south keeping an eye on Gloucester. The risks I take are calculated, Felix.”

Claude, being Claude, doesn’t elaborate more on that. Instead, the meeting turns to plans and practicalities. It’s decided that Ashe and Annette will leave the next day, but Sylvain refuses to go with them.

“I’ll march with your army,” he tells Claude.

“Will you?” is the droll reply. “You have no standing in my army. But I’m sure someone needs a squire.”

“Hey, Felix?” Sylvain turns to him with a smile. “Need a squire?”

The answer to such a stupid question is on the tip of Felix’s tongue – “ _I’m not a knight so why would I need a squire?_ ”

But he sees – or he thinks he sees – what Sylvain is really trying to say. He’s trying to tell Felix that he’s not going ahead to Faerghus without him. That he wants to stay with him.

So instead he raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if you’re good enough to clean my swords, but I suppose I’ll give you a chance.”

Sylvain grins, and across the room, someone else snickers. Felix glances over to see who it is, but he’s met with several faces that are either amused or incredulous.

“I have to ask,” begins Claude. “Do you even _know_ what it sounds like when you say things like that?”

Felix frowns, but Sylvain only laughs.

***

Together in bed on their last night in Derdriu, when they’re stated but still wrapped up in each other, Sylvain asks Felix how he feels about returning to Faerghus.

He mulls the question over as Sylvain softly runs his fingers through his hair.

“Okay, I suppose,” he eventually answers, words almost a mumble as sleepiness sets in.

“Okay? That’s it?”

Felix shrugs against him. “It’s something that has to be done. But it doesn’t seem so bad now, even with the war and Dimitri…” He trails off, yawning. When he speaks next, his voice is almost a whisper, like he’s afraid to admit it. “I think it’s easier because I’m going back with you.”

Sylvain’s arms tighten around him. “Yeah, I get that. Even with Dimitri and the Archbishop being… as they are. It seems better now. I’m glad they’ve realised they need Claude – even if Claude needs them too. It’s given us all a chance.”

“We still need to fight the war.”

“I know. Just seems less hopeless now, I guess.”

Felix skims a hand down Sylvain’s warm back, feeling solid muscle and scar tissue under his fingers. He sighs, opening his eyes in the dim room, taking in Sylvain, relaxed and sleepy. “Hey, Sylvain?”

“Yeah?”

“I know that I love you.” The words slip out, almost unbidden.

Sylvain’s eyes, which had been closed, open almost comically wide. “Oh, you _know_ , do you?”

“Don’t make me take it back.” There’s no bite in Felix’s words, and they both know it.

“No, no, no take backs.” Sylvain slides a hand across Felix’s jaw to tilt his face up for a kiss. But it’s a brief one before he pulls back slightly, and begins singing, “I love you, I love youuuuu, Felix Hugooooo– _oh–_ “

Felix bites his bottom lip, cutting off the singing immediately. It’s not that he minds it – quite the opposite – he’s just far more interested right now in other uses for Sylvain’s lips.

And by Sylvain’s reaction, he knows he feels the same way.

There’s a war to fight, and people to face that he’d rather not. Felix hasn’t forgotten all that. But now, in this moment, that doesn’t seem to matter. He feels like he could walk across the lava pits at Ailell so long as Sylvain is by his side.

 _Not a weakness_ , Felix decides. _But strength._

**Author's Note:**

> Don't judge me for the bad lyrics. Sylvain can get away with them because he's hot.
> 
> I am also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/rydiaofmyst).


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